The Address is 221B Baker Street Part I of II
by Ezra Quinn
Summary: Dr. John Watson meets a man named Sherlock Holmes who calls himself a consulting detective. After a night of chasing cabbies across London, they form what will become a lifelong bond and learn more about themselves than they bargained for.
1. 221B

John woke up with sunlight on his face, insistently shining through the sheer curtains on the bedroom window. Blinking, his waking mind was confused momentarily by the foreign ceiling he was staring up at, and the bed he didn't immediately recognize. Sitting up and rubbing his eyes, the appropriate amounts of blood and oxygen balanced out in his brain and he remembered that he had just spent his first night at 221B Baker Street. His "bad" leg was still a bit sore from running around London two days ago, and then moving from one flat to another (he'd had enough stairs for one weekend, thank you). It was a good sort of sore, though, like after going for a good sprint.

He stood up and stretched before walking across the room to pull his dressing gown over his white t-shirt and boxers. He didn't feel particularly hungry just yet, so he decided to shower first, and have some tea and toast after. Kneeling on the surprisingly plush carpet, he lifted the lid to his half-unpacked luggage case and dug out a worn beige towel and the neccesary toiletries. Throwing the towel over his bad shoulder and carrying his bathroom supplies in his right hand and the crook of his arm, he descended the stairs quietly, so as not to wake his new flatmate in case he was still sleeping.

When he reached the bottom of the stairs, however, a voice in the sitting room gave him pause. The door was just barely ajar, where John could see in but anyone in the sitting room would have to be very strategically positioned in order to see out.

"It's got to be in here, in this room," a low voice mumbled. "Oh, don't put on that look. I've not replaced you."

John realized that it was Sherlock Holmes who was speaking, and as far as he could see, there was nobody else in the room. Granted, he couldn't see very far from where he stood about two meters away from the door, as he didn't even see the tall anomoly of a man in the room. He only saw the fireplace and two empty chairs in front of it. Sherlock's voice was coming from the other side of the room, closer to the door.

"It's in here, it must be, but _where_…? Really now, you're just distracting me and being entirely unhelpful." Sherlock's form passed by the space in the doorway in a blue blur as he strode purposefully towards the fireplace. The man looked very dissheveled, his blue dressing gown hanging precariously off one bony shoulder, his pyjama bottoms were severely wrinkled, and the mop of dark curls atop his head were doing an accurate—and rather fitting—impression of Albert Einstein's infamously chaotic hair.

Sherlock seemed to be staring down the skull on the mantle—John wondered if it was real, and made a mental note to investigate later. After a brief staring contest, where oddly John felt that somehow, Sherlock had won, the consulting detective reached out and turned the skull so that it faced away from the sitting room, towads the kitchen. Sherlock made to turn around, but then stopped, distracted by something at his feet. "AHA!" John jumped at the proclamation of triumph, "There it is." Sherlock bent down and picked up a violin bow from the floor with a smile on his face. Something about the smile looked eerie on Sherlock's face, as if it didn't belong or his face wasn't entirely sure how to produce a smile.

"Morning, Dr. Watson!" Sherlock called out suddenly, without even looking at the door, as he strode out of view.

John blinked and felt a flush rise to his cheeks upon being discovered. He hadn't really realized he'd been standing there for nearly five minutes. "Um, right. Morning…" John replied awkwardly, and took a step down the hall, towards the bathroom. He stopped as a thought occurred to him, and instead walked towards the sitting room. Pushing the door open so he could stand in the doorway, he found Sherlock standing by the window, violin and newly-recovered bow in hand. "Sorry, but… were you just—"

Sherlock interrupted the doctor without even looking up from tuning his instrument, "Talking to the skull? Yes. Old friend of mine." A corner of Sherlock's mouth twitched upwards briefly and he added, "In a manner of speaking."

"Right," John said, clearing his throat and withdrawing to the hall, heading towards the bathroom. After what happened with the Pink Lady case and the mad cabbie, and now the skull on the mantle, John was beginning to wonder what, exactly, he had gotten himself into.


	2. Civilian Life

After his shower, John got dressed and walked downstairs for some breakfast. He found his flatmate sitting on his chair by the fireplace, as in actually, literally on top of the chair. His feet were on the seat cushion, and his arse was perched on the top edge of the back. John gave a nod in Sherlock's direction, who seemed to pay no mind as he sat almost like a praying mantis—all limbs, no substance, hands clasped in a spiritual pose—and turned into the kitchen to make some tea. Finding the kettle empty, John brought it to the sink to find all manner of dishware stacked inside it. Test tubes, petri dishes, tea cups, and a gruesomely scorched crucible.

"You're quite good," John said, shrugging off the odd contents of the sink. He was referring to his flatmate's talent with the violin he'd heard while he was in the shower, and continued with, "Were you taught professionally?"

"No, I taught myself," Sherlock replied, his moving mouth and bobbing adam's apple being the only parts of him that moved.

"Musical family, then?" John asked, filling the kettle. He wondered what instrument the overly dramatic elder Holmes brother would play. John could only picture Mycroft as a conductor, center stage and in charge.

"Not particularly. I only played because it annoyed my brother," Sherlock said blandly.

John smirked and set the kettle on the cleanest burner; to call it clean was only relative to the others. God only knows what was encrusted on them all. The only sound for several minutes was the quiet hissing of the stove. Normally, silence like this after small talk was awkward. Not with Sherlock, though; it was actually quite comfortable and relaxing, as if the silence was an affirmation of some mutual understanding between the two men.

While waiting for the water to boil, John took the liberty of opening and closing cupboard doors, finding most of them lacking food and filled to bursting with scientific equipment, some of which even John's trained medical eye couldn't identify. Abandoning his quest for food that clearly wasn't anywhere in the flat, John wandered into the sitting room to find a newspaper to read. He passed by the mantle, and almost reflexively did a double-take at the skull, having forgotten about its existence completely.

He leaned close to examine it, rotating it and feeling the cracks and insides of the eye sockets. It was definitely a genuine human skull: adult male. John's mind began drifting, wondering where Sherlock could have possibly acquired the skull, and remembered that Sherlock had called the skull "an old friend" earlier that morning. A flashback from the first time they'd met a few days ago suddenly popped into John's head:_"Sorry, got to dash; I think I left my riding crop in the mortuary."_ He decided, on second thought, he really didn't want to know where the skull came from.

Taking a seat in the chair across from Sherlock's, John picked up a newspaper folded on the table beside it. He flipped absently through the pages, finding nothing of particular interest, until Sherlock startled him by speaking.

"It helps me think," Sherlock said, staring unblinkingly at John. The doctor didn't realize it, but Sherlock had been examining John intently the entire time he'd been searching the kitchen and now, as he was sitting across from him.

"Sorry, what?" John asked, resting the uninteresting paper in his lap.

"You were wondering why I was talking to the skull this morning," Sherlock explained.

"Right," John said, recalling the awkwardness of being discovered like some sort of pervert in the hall. "About that, I wasn't leering or snooping, I was just—"

"Obviously," Sherlock said, cutting off John's awkward apology, "You were carrying toiletries and a towel, clearly your objective was not to spy on me."

"Right," John repeated, deciding it was best to keep his mouth shut. The kettle started whistling from behind him in the kitchen, and he went to tend to it. "Fancy some tea?"

"No, thank you," Sherlock replied, finally moving more than his lips and vacating his chair. When he did, it was as if his body had unfolded like a crumpled piece of paper reversing back to its original pristine form. John turned around again to ask where tea cups were, but was distracted by Sherlock moving strangely.

He was clearly stretching, but in a very odd way; his long arms were extended straight up into the air, his fingers splayed completely apart. His eyes were squeezed shut, and what sounded like a very erotic moan was rumbling from deep in his chest. Before John could remember what he'd been doing in the first place, Sherlock opened his eyes and relaxed into a normal standing position, facing away from John. "Cups are in the corner cabinet!" He called back as he strode out of the sitting room, and down the hall. His bedroom door shut with a click before John registered what Sherlock had told him.

Shaking his head, as if to clear his thoughts, he opened the cupboard to find the last clean tea cup waiting with a spoon inside of it. Not willing to trust it completely, he gave it a quick rinse in the sink before depositing a tea bag and the hot water inside. Prodding the soggy tea bag with the spoon, John's mind wandered back to Sherlock's odd stretching and moaning. It had woken something inside of John that hasn't stirred for a long time; the war had pushed all thoughts of lust from his mind, and the depression following his return to civilian life had caused his interest in any of it to fade. He thought it odd and a bit concerning that his new flatmate—a man he barely knew and had already killed a man for, in the context of civilian life, as opposed to in the context of battle—and, he would like to emphasize again, _a man,_ is the one to stir up feelings of lust and sexual desire.

John shook his head again, stabbing the tea bag too violently, and the spoon hit the bottom of the tea cup with a loud clank. The words of Mycroft Holmes were clearly getting to him, and John had to dismiss them. Mycroft had been trying to rile John up, and so he had jumped to conclusions as a means of instigating. John had simply needed to get some oxygen into his brain, which he had just done by way of chasing cabbies across London. What he needed now was to get back on his feet and find himself a job to keep him busy, and a nice pretty girl to, well… John decided to steer clear of those thoughts, and turned his mind instead to his tea, and the fact that he finally had something to write about in his blog.


	3. The Dating Game

Sherlock didn't like Sarah. She was too much like Molly, in that she let her emotions control her and cloud an otherwise somewhat intelligent mind. What's more, she isn't the type to be as loyal as Molly is. Not that she was disloyal to John, as far as Sherlock could tell, but if it suited her fancy or if she was cross with John, she wouldn't hesitate to shack up with another man. That was Molly's only redeeming quality: she was loyal, to a fault. As it's Molly, even her redeeming quality has its flaws.

"Morning," John greeted his flatmate cheerfully as he entered the sitting room, a worn overnight bag in hand. This was unusual; After spending a night with Sarah, John usually went straight up to his room to put his things away before coming into the living area of their flat. Sherlock hid his interest, however, and turned up the volume on his sulky demeanor, pretending to be interested in his unread emails.

Approaching Sherlock, John pressed on, "Got something for you. Well, Sarah got it, I'm just the messenger." The idiotic grin that spread across John's face as he put his bag on the empty chair across from Sherlock's warped the doctor's features, making him look like some foreign imitation of John, like a wax figure. Eerily similar, but not right at the same time.

"Domestics don't suit you, John," Sherlock pointed out, glaring at the oddly cheerful expression on his face. He was always like this after spending time with Sarah, and he honestly wondered sometimes whether he'd rather spend time with his brother than see John after the man had spent a considerable amount of time with his unfathomably ordinary girlfriend.

John ignored Sherlock's comment and withdrew a black vinyl case with a silver snap closure, placing it gently on the table beside Sherlock's laptop. "Dissection kit. The hospital ordered new sets and got the wrong batch, but before they sent them back to exchange for the right ones, Sarah nicked one for you. Never used, professional grade. Checked it out myself, it's very good."

Although he was very much interested in looking at the kit, Sherlock twisted his face into a grimace and said, "Sarah needs to try harder if she wants to tempt me with bribes."

John blinked, not expecting that reaction. He hadn't exactly been expecting much, maybe just a simple half-sincere "Thank you," but the ice in Sherlock's tone was not at all what John had expected. "Sorry, what?"

"She knows I don't like her, she doesn't understand why, and that bothers her."

John sighed impatiently and replied, "Well, frankly, Sherlock, I don't understand either. It looks to me like you've got a problem with women."

"I do not," Sherlock snapped, dropping the act of false interest in his email, finally looking at John.

"Oh? You don't?" John said in a mocking, sarcastic tone, "What about Sergeant Donovan and the Pink Lady and Molly and any woman you've ever encountered in our cases?"

"I do not dislike Molly," Sherlock argued vehemently, adding, "She's very useful."

"Sherlock…" John groaned, kneading his brow, "Molly is not a laboratory tool. She is a person. A human being." Sherlock shrugged, as if he didn't see the difference, and John took a deep breath, exhaling through his nose.

"And what of Mrs. Hudson, John?" Sherlock asked, raising his eyebrows at his flatmate, "I have no problem with her."

"Why? Because she's useful too?" John asked, glaring at Sherlock.

"No," Sherlock replied simply, and John wasn't sure what the no was directed at.

"So what of Sarah, then? If it's not because she's a woman, what is it that you find so intolerable about her?"

"Her mind is ruled by her emotions, she is absolutely useless under pressure, and she is only a mediocre doctor with no worthwhile skills beyond that," Sherlock explained, sounding bored with the conversation already. He returned his attention to his computer, opening up a post he'd started that detailed his tobacco catalogue.

"Sherlock, that's called being a normal person. Not everybody is as emotionless as you," John replied, adding, "Nobody is."

"That's precisely the problem, John. She's far too ordinary for you," Sherlock said, comparing what he'd typed to a notebook on the table, to find where he'd left off in his list.

"With a flatmate like you, I've got to have_ something_ ordinary in my life!" John shot back, taking his bag off the table and turning to go upstairs to his room.

"If you wanted an ordinary life, John, you wouldn't have moved in to this flat," Sherlock said calmly, although an odd sensation had flared up in his stomach when he realized he was right. He was always right—but for the occasional minor detail—so why did it feel particularly rewarding this time?

John opened his mouth to respond, but could not come up with anything to say. Sherlock was right, as usual, and it was absolutely maddening. He thought he knew what he wanted in life: a wife, a dog, and a nice flat in London. Naturally, dating Sarah seemed like a step in the right direction on that path to a calm married life, but now that he thought about it, he wasn't so sure that was what he wanted. He couldn't think of anything he would want as an alternative, but he suddenly felt that what he'd always assumed he'd wanted was not actually what he wanted.

Damning Sherlock and his uncanny ability to get under John's skin and read the synapses between his ears so accurately, John shook his head and walked briskly out of the sitting room and up the stairs to his bedroom.


	4. Mycroft Knows Best

"What are you doing here, Mycroft?" Sherlock drawled from the kitchen, before Mycroft had even made it all the way up the stairs. He vacated his seat at the table, where he'd been taking a closer look at a skin shaving from the head in the fridge. He didn't want to attract Mycroft's attention to his current research.

"Haven't I got the right to check in on my brother when a building across the street explodes?" Mycroft asked, feigning innocence as he strolled into the doorway of the sitting room. Looking around and finding Sherlock by himself, the elder Holmes turned and glanced up towards the top of the stairs, finding John's bedroom door slightly ajar. It was always closed, especially if John was out, as he apparently was currently.

"Don't be fecitious," Sherlock said irritably, picking up his violin case and bringing it over to his chair.

"Oh dear, you've had a domestic again, haven't you?" Mycroft sighed, slowly striding towards John's empy chair by the fireplace.

"Congratulations on making an obvious observation," Sherlock mumbled, realizing that Mycroft must have taken notice of John's slightly open bedroom door. It was only ever open in John's absence when he'd stormed out of the flat after a row.

"You really should learn to compromise on your differences, or else this relationship isn't going to work out for either of you," Mycroft said, his false pitying tone grating on Sherlock's already worn patience. He wasn't in the mood for his brother's arrogance after having his intelligence inappropriately insulted by John over something insignificant and irrelevant.

"What do you want, Mycroft?" Sherlock asked, still not looking at his brother.

"As it happens, I have a case for you," Mycroft began, and before he could reach into his jacket for the file, Sherlock interrupted him rudely.

"Not interested," Sherlock said, loudly unlocking his violin case and lifting the lid.

"Don't be so hasty, dear brother," Mycroft clucked his tongue like an irritated mother hen, "You haven't heard anything about it yet to make a proper judgement of its worth."

"Doesn't matter," Sherlock replied blandly, waving the issue away with his hand before reaching into the case to pick up his violin, "Too busy."

"Busy?" Mycroft's eyebrows shot up into his receding hairline, "Busy doing what, might I ask?" Sherlock offered no reply, and began picking at the violin strings. A Cheshire Cat grin suddenly spread across Mycroft's face and he said with an air of indifference, "No matter. I know I can get John interested, as it's concerning Queen and country."

"John couldn't solve a case without me," Sherlock stated bluntly, wincing when a string did not sound at all right.

"Of course not, but you couldn't keep your nose out of the file in his hands if you wanted to," Mycroft said, his grin growing, "You've already searched his room."

"What of it?" Sherlock demanded, his agitation showing more than he would have liked.

"What were you looking for, Sherlock? Evidence of a break-up with… what was her name?"

"Sarah," Sherlock answered, far too quickly. He plucked at the offending off-key string angrily, frustrated with himself.

"Right," Mycroft said, the mischief in his smile turning into a condescending, knowing look, "And what did you find?" Sherlock didn't respond, and tried to focus on tuning his violin. Mycroft turned his smile into a pitying pout and said, "Oh dear, you found a box of condoms, didn't you?"

"Unopened," Sherlock said, again too quickly. Despite his frustration with controlling himself, he bit back a smile at the thought of John's lack of sucess with his sexual advances towards Sarah.

"Who's to say he hadn't just bought a new box after having gone through one already?" Mycroft asked, raising his eyebrows again and watching his brother's face very closely.

"I would know," Sherlock replied confidently, moving on to the next string to test its sound.

"Would you really," Mycroft said doubtfully, lowering his chin and looking at his brother, as if he was peering over a pair of glasses. Sherlock hadn't expected that comment, or for the conversation to turn in this direction, and his eyes snapped up to meet his brother's. Bad idea. "It's almost adorable, seeing my dear little brother in love. And quite unexpected, I must admit."

"That's not how it is, Mycroft," Sherlock replied bitterly, glaring at his brother, "You know that I am marr—"

" 'Married to my work,' yes, I know, you say that so often," Mycroft sighed and rolled his eyes as he interrupted Sherlock, "but it sounds so rehearsed. I wonder if you truly mean that."

"I assure you, I do," Sherlock said slowly and firmly, but breaking eye contact as he said it, returning his attention to his violin. Trying to, anyway.

"Your relationship with John is touching," Mycroft said, the Cheshire grin returning, "Seeing you become… _pals_ with someone so quickly is really quite remarkable. I wish you both all the happiness in the world."

"Please keep your suppositions and unusually large nose out of my business, Mycroft. Go back to playing with your political puppets." Sherlock bent forward to remove the bow from the case beside his chair, and placed it carefully on the armrest.

"I'm not going anywhere, Sherlock, until you take this case," Mycroft said firmly, his smile vanishing as he put his business face back on. He reached into his jacket and withdrew the hefty file, resting it on the armrest of John's chair.

"No," Sherlock replied, strumming across the strings as if to emphasize his refusal. He heard the door open downstairs, and John's feet pounding up the stairs, calling his name. Hearing the way John sounded concerned made Sherlock's stomach tighten. When John stumbled breathlessly into the room, Sherlock greeted him tonelessly: "John."

Looking confused, taking in the broken windows and debris on the floor, and blinking in surprise at Mycroft sitting calmly across from Sherlock, John panted, "I saw it on the telly, you okay?"

Sherlock had forgotten about the explosion across the street, and so it took him a moment to realize what John was talking about. "Er, what? Oh, I'm fine. Gas leak, apparently." He dragged a finger across the strings again, and went back to glaring at and arguing with his brother.


	5. Sherlock Tests Gravity

John was halfway up the stairs to the flat, bag of milk in hand, when he heard a series of thumps and bangs overhead, followed by silence. Hurrying up the rest of the way, he got to the top and turned down the hallway. He saw a limp arm sticking out from the bottom of the steps leading to his bedroom, and dropped the milk to run to his injured flatmate.

Sherlock's body lay in a heap at the foot of the steps, a tangle of limbs curled into a ball. John checked Sherlock's pulse automatically, though not neccesarily because he doubted it was there, and ran his fingers gently through the curls covering the detective's head. The man's hair was surprisingly soft, and none of it was wet with blood, thankfully. If he'd hit his head, he would be bleeding profusely by now, as head wounds are wont to do.

Judging by Sherlock's nearly fetal position at the foot of the stairs, John could see that the detective had the sense to curl his arms over his head to protect himself from severe injury, despite it heightening the risk for his arms and knees. John gently checked Sherlock's arms first, rolling up the sleeves of the elegant but simple dressing gown to check for bruises or—god forbid—protruding bone. There was minor bruising on the forearms, and the shoulders and elbows seemed to be in working order.

Sherlock moaned suddenly, as he slowly came to. He winced before opening his eyes blearily, looking bewildered. This expression was rare to see on Sherlock's face, and it made him look like a child who just woke up from a long nap.

"Shh, shh," John hushed Sherlock gently, another automatic reaction, and laid his hand gently on Sherlock's chest to discourage him from getting up. "You had a bad fall down the stairs, just be still while I check you out." For once, Sherlock was obedient and silent, but he kept a careful eye on John as the good doctor examined him. "Can you move your toes?" Sherlock looked down at his bare feet and attempted to wiggle his toes, but winced in pain the second the muscles began moving. "Ok, alright, be still now. Let me see…"

John walked on his knees to kneel by Sherlock's legs so he could reach his feet. He gently began feeling Sherlock's toes, and before he could ask Sherlock if he could feel anything, a wheezy snort-like sound came out of Sherlock's nose and mouth, and John turned to scowl at his flatmate like a parent scolding an unruly child. "Oh, hush, I take it you have feeling in your toes, then?" Sherlock nodded, an irritated expression on his face, though whether he was irritated at John or himself, John could not tell. At any rate, aside from his response to being ticklish, he remained silent as if John's shushing had put an invisible zipper across his lips.

John felt Sherlock's ankles, shins, knees, and his thighs before concluding that the detective was just bruised and had pulled a muscle in his right leg in the process of falling down the stairs. Helping Sherlock to sit up, John took Sherlock's left arm and put it around his shoulders, holding it there with his left hand, and put his right arm around Sherlock's waist. "Alright, standing now, ready? One, two, _three_," John grunted and Sherlock hissed through his teeth as the doctor hoisted the detective to stand shakily on his feet, most of his weight on the relatively uninjured left leg.

"Now, I know you're a bit disoriented now, but once you've sat down and had some tea, I'd like to know what, exactly, you were doing up in my room," John said sternly as he helped Sherlock limp over to his chair in the sitting room.

Sherlock, no longer being silent for the sake of obedience but rather for sulking like a scorned child, pouted in his chair while John put away the milk and fixed some tea for the two of them in the kitchen.

Without turning from the tea, with his back to Sherlock, John called from the kitchen, "Don't sulk at me, Sherlock, I didn't push you down the stairs. You're lucky I was just coming in when you fell." Sherlock continued to sulk in silence until John brought out tea and some pain medicine for Sherlock to take. "Now stop pouting like a child, and take this."

Sherlock gulped down the pills with a glass of water John brought with the tea before muttering, "For a doctor, you are awfully lacking in pity for the wounded."

John snorted at the pathetic pout in Sherlock's voice and replied, "Pardon me for not pitying my flatmate for getting his due after snooping around in my bedroom." Sherlock glowered at John and said nothing, sipping his tea and staring absently at the skull on the mantle. "What were you doing in there, exactly?"

"I don't quite remember," Sherlock replied quietly, looking into his tea instead of at John.

"You can't fool me, Sherlock. I live with you, you know. I know all your little tricks and schemes. I know when you're lying and when you're not," John looked pointedly at Sherlock, but the detective continued to avoid looking at him. He looked towards the couch at the smiley face on the wall when he replied.

"I hit my head pretty badly in my fall. I'm not sure my memory is present in its entirety at this point," Sherlock narrowed his eyes at the smiley face, feigning interest in an imaginary spot on the wall.

"No, you were just knocked about a bit. No concussion from what I could see, so don't give me any nonsense. What was it this time? Looking for another box of condoms to deduce my sexual activity? Don't think for a second I've forgotten that," John continued fixing his intent stare on Sherlock.

Mycroft had made a comment about Sherlock finding a box of condoms in John's room during their last case with Moriarty and the countdowns threatening innocent civilians. They had been so caught up with solving Morirarty's riddles for them in time that John hadn't had the chance to ask Sherlock what that was all about. Sherlock scowled, but did not respond, as he'd hoped the episode at the pool would have pushed Mycroft's comment out of John's memory.

After Sherlock remained determinedly silent, John sighed in frustration, rubbing his knees as he said, "You know, if you were a normal bloke, and you'd snuck in my room and found condoms, you'd have nicked them for your own use. And I'd tell you there's no need to sneak around about it, you could always just ask if you needed some rubbers. But you're not normal, far from it, and I still have no idea what reason you had to be in my room, snooping around."

"I was doing research," Sherlock finally said into his tea cup, lips brushing against the rim as he spoke.

John blinked and looked down at his shoes to bring his attention away from Sherlock's attractive lips—did he just say _attractive?_—and bring it back to the conversation at hand. "Research? Sherlock, I'm your flatmate. Not an inmate or a specimen."

"I find you interesting," Sherlock said, a slight blush rising in his cheeks. John was still staring at his shoes, and didn't notice.

"I'm… flattered? But seriously, Sherlock, I'd rather you not go looking through my things while I'm gone. Research or not. I close the door for a reason." John looked back up at Sherlock, and though his words were firm, his brown eyes were gentle, much like when he had been carefully examining Sherlock on the floor by the stairs.

"As do I, and yet you go through my things, quite thoroughly, and on a monthly basis," Sherlock pointed out coldly, making eye contact with John to emphasize his seriousness.

"Yeah, but that's different," John said, flustered at the fair point Sherlock had raised. Sherlock had been good recently; his room had been clean for the last two checks.

"Is it? My addiction is hardly different from yours," Sherlock's eyes shifted from John's face to the skull that appeared to be smiling at him.

"_My_ addiction?" John repeated, his face contorted in confusion and a touch of anger.

"Oh please, it's obvious. You come in here every week with a different girlfriend," Sherlock pronounced the last word like it was from a language he wasn't completely fluent in, and it left a bad taste in his mouth.

"What? Are you—that's not—" John spluttered, but snapped his mouth shut and bit his tongue, almost literally. He realized that Sherlock made a fair enough point, and decided to just let it die. "Alright. Fine. It's all fine, whatever. Just don't take anything." John rubbed his knees again in agitation and sighed before standing and leaving the room, abandoning his empty tea cup on the table beside his chair.

"You've left the tea out," Sherlock pointed out calmly, still seated in his chair. John was in the doorway to the hall, and he stopped and turned slowly to face Sherlock, anger sharpening the edges on his usually rounded face.

"I'm not your housekeeper!" John exlcaimed angrily, and stormed past Mrs. Hudson as she passed him to enter the sitting room.

"That makes two of us," Mrs. Hudson said cheerily, but John did not reply as his feet thudded on the stairs up to his room, shutting the door behind him. "You two and your domestics…" She murmured under her breath good-naturedly, going into the kitchen to straighten up out of habit. Seeing Sherlock in his chair, she smiled over at him, but then she appeared concerned and said, "Oh dear, Sherlock, you look rather pale. Are you alright?"

"I'm fine, Mrs. Hudson," Sherlock said absently, setting down his tea, "A good case would do me good, I'm sure." Mrs. Hudson nodded in agreement, and continued bustling about the kitchen. Sherlock remained in his chair, contemplating the sensation that had come over him while John had been looking him over for injuries. The gentle touch of the doctor's strong, rough hands had caused Sherlock's hormones to respond in a curious way, and he wondered what it meant.


	6. A Study in Emotions

"You can have a seat right here," John gestured to the sofa as he lead the attractive young woman into the flat. She was their third client today, after the previous two had been denied on the basis of being too dull, according to Sherlock.

Sherlock only tilted his chin upwards slightly in greeting, and John could see his bright eyes, like lasers, going up and down her body, appraising her. Not sexually, of course, but John wished sometimes that Sherlock would pay him that much attention. It's the least he could do, was show interest in their friendship.

John felt Sherlock's gaze on him, and he looked from the woman on the couch to meet his flatemate's eyes. John always felt naked and vulnerable, and slightly nervous, when Sherlock looked at him, but once he looked away, John immediately missed the attention. He wasn't sure why, and it irked him quite a bit that he was affected by his flatmate in such a way. It was similar to the bile that had risen in his throat upon finding Irene Adler, completely naked, straddling Sherlock when they first met her, and the knot that formed in his stomach whenever Sherlock's phone sighed, an echo of The Woman's presence in their lives.

Mulling over these thoughts as he had done a lot in the past month, John realized that the room was quiet, and Sherlock was acting as though the woman who had just come into the flat was not even there, or John, for that matter.

John cleared his throat, startling the woman but not faizing Sherlock, and said, "Sherlock, this is, um, Jackie Marsh. She emailed me on Tuesday—"

Sherlock interrupted without turning away from the skull, "About the sentimental robberies, yes, I saw. Unfortunately, not until after you'd already invited her here."

"Sorry, what?" Jackie asked, and John groaned internally at Sherlock's tactless disregard of the separation between thought and speech. He was too used to Sherlock "confiscating" his laptop to care about it anymore, but the manners definitely needed work.

"Um, right, don't mind what he just said. I found your case to be quite interesting," John said truthfully, and turned in his chair to face Sherlock as he continued, "Robber comes in every night while she's out on the night shift at the hospital and steals her outgoing post, small pillows, and any note or receipt he can find. Nothing of value, and nothing else is broken or displaced. Sounds like a stalker to me, Sherlock, what do you think?"

Sherlock sighed, rolling his eyes, and finally turned around after muttering something to the skull that neither John nor Jackie could hear. The tall detective fixed his gaze on John, still acting as if Jackie was not there, and said in a clear voice, "I don't know what you find so interesting about this case, John, as even you were able to deduce what was going on. It's far too dull. I don't like it." Sherlock sat down decisively in his chair, closed his eyes, and touched the tips of his fingers to his temples. It looked like he was meditating, but John could tell he was just trying to delete Jackie from his memory, as if it would somehow cause her to materialize out of the room to somewhere far away.

"But I'm so frightened," Jackie pleaded, reciprocating Sherlock's dismissive attitude towards her. She turned instead to John, and placed a gentle hand on his knee. Staring into his deep brown eyes with her blue ones, she said, "I'm not working night shift next Monday; I'm terribly frightened that he'll come in again while I'm there. Goodness knows what could happen to me!"

John and Sherlock had both been a bit thrown off by her touching and then squeezing John's right knee. Sherlock's eyes had snapped open when he detected the contact, and he glared at her small hand with chipped red nail polish sitting on John's knee_. What made her think she could do that?_ John was visibly startled by it as well, and looked uncomfortable.

"Uh, well, if you went down to Scotland Yard, I'm sure they could set up a post nearby to keep an eye out," John suggested, distracted by the last time a woman had laid a hand on his knee; he remembered how the woman's lips had felt against his… well, John cleared his throat in discomfort, not his lips.

"Oh, but they're far too busy to help a scaredy-cat like me," Jackie leaned towards John insistently, never breaking eye contact, even though he did several times. "What about you, John? Couldn't you stay, just for that night?"

John was taken aback by this proposal, and felt his cheeks flushing slightly in discomfort. Before he could stammer any kind of awkward response, however, Sherlock was on his feet and standing beside John's chair, hands on his hips. The buttons on the ivory shirt stretched, and John realized he was not in the right state of mind to be in public company, and was privately grateful for Sherlock breaking the blonde's intense stare. Sherlock spoke coldly, looking at Jackie for the first time, "Scotland Yard is not busy at all, I assure you." _If they were, Lestrade would have called._

Jackie frowned at Sherlock, and turned her round blue eyes back to John, who was sitting stiffly in his chair as if a large bug had landed in his lap and he wasn't sure what to do about it. "It would only be one night. Please," she slid her hand upwards about two inches, and suddenly Sherlock had had enough.

"Out!" He said loudly, causing both John and Jackie to jump. In two steps, he was standing in front of John—stil seated and looking a bit bewildered—and held an arm protectively out to his side, blocking any access to John. With his other arm, he pointed at the door and said, "Get out. I won't be having any of this false-fronting to get at my flatmate." He sneered when he said "false-fronting," his expression and tone making it clear that he was being polite in wording it that way.

Jackie's jaw sprang open in indignation, and she stood up quickly, nearly chest-to-chest with Sherlock, who still had an arm out to block John. The doctor realized that Sherlock was physically keeping her away from him, in a very protective manner, and he couldn't understand why. Jackie's full blonde curls seemed to snap with electricity as she stared down the detective, whose overwhelming calm raised a high contrast to her anger.

"Some nerve you have," she spat at Sherlock, grabbing her coat from the arm of the sofa without breaking their staring contest. John looked on, confused, as he tried to figure out what exactly was going on.

"You can hardly speak yourself," Sherlock retorted coldly but smoothly, and with a "Hmph!" Jackie turned on her heel and stalked across the room. John made to walk her out, but she called over her shoulder, "Don't bother!" and slammed the door behind her as her heels stomped down the stairs and out the front door. It wasn't until the front door slammed that Sherlock let his arm fall to his side, and when he did, he strode angrily towards his chair and plopped down with a slight bounce from the cushion.

John scratched his head, rubbing his knee absent-mindedly to remove the residual feeling of unwanted warmth from it, and asked, "What—what was all that about?"

"She wasn't hear for a case, John," Sherlock said simply, staring blankly past John and into the kitchen.

"Alright, I got that much, but what's so criminal about her being interested in me? I've got a right to get off with any girl I choose, you know," John could suddenly empathize with teenage girls he'd tried to date back in his school days, whose fathers would give the boot to any prospective beaus that set foot on the front step.

Sherlock snorted rather rudely and said, "Don't go on like she was your type, John. She's just an absence from work away from being fired and resorting, not so reluctantly, to being a prostitute."

John blinked, as this was rather crass, even for Sherlock. "So you're deciding who is good enough to date me now?"

"After Sarah and all these other nameless failed attempts, I feel that you could do with a little assistance in this area," Sherlock pointed out, still staring into the kitchen.

"What? You said yourself women aren't 'your area,' when we first met. Has that changed now, all of a sudden?" John demanded.

"They're not my area, John," Sherlock said tonelessly, "nor are they yours."

"What!" John bristled, chest swelling with anger. Something about John's mannerisms when he was angry was somewhat endearing to Sherlock. _Endearing? Since when had that become a part of his vocabulary?_ John saw Sherlock's face twitch in annoyance, which only egged him on. "According to your brother, you have no experience whatsoever with women, and yet somehow you think you know well enough to tell me that I know nothing about them?"

"Mycroft neglected to mention that was by choice," Sherlock pointed out.

"So you _are _gay, then?" John asked, sounding suddenly gentle. He didn't realize why he'd lightened his tone, as he was still very cross.

"Not neccesarily," Sherlock said vaguely, and when he felt John's flustered gaze on him, finally turned his face to look at John. He sighed in frustration at having to explain himself, as usual, but proceeded to anyway, "It's not a matter of interest in one sex or the other; it's a matter of not having found any one person who was interesting enough to intrigue me."

"So what, then, if you keep on scaring women off who might be interested in me, hm?" John was glad to hear his anger back in his voice, continuing, "If you don't find anyone interesting enough for me by your ridiculously high standards, what about me? Am I supposed to just accept that this flatshare with you is the only companionship I'll get?"_ Some companionship that would be_, John thought. His anger faltered briefly while he momentarily second-guessed what he meant by that.

"They're all far too ordinary and predictable, John! Can't you see?" Sherlock demanded, sounding almost manic or desperate. It was hard to tell the difference sometimes. At any rate, this outburst had him on his feet, pacing in a very tight circle.

"But what if I want something ordinary, Sherlock? What if I do want to get married and have children and lead a normal life like a normal bloke?" John demanded in return, just realizing then that at some point in their conversation he had stood up.

"I can't lose you, John!" Sherlock blurted out, and his face immediately flushed pink. John had never seem him blush before, other than after running, and he had also never seen Sherlock look genuinely regretful the way he looked now.

"What… did you say?" John asked slowly, quietly, taking a step towards Sherlock. The detective scanned John's face—John could see the eyes going back and forth like saccades gone awry—but Sherlock could not read John's reaction. He didn't know what John was thinking. He didn't know what to do. "Sherlock?" John prompted, but Sherlock brushed past John and walked very briskly to his room. "Sherlock!" John called after him, but Sherlock's door slammed shut and locked behind him before John had gotten to the second syllable.

John sank into his chair, rubbing his eyes and his temples, trying to make sense of what had just happened. Sherlock had acted very protective and posessive towards him, and then he let slip that he didn't want to lose him. What was that supposed to mean? Did Sherlock have feelings for him? And why didn't John know how to feel about it?


	7. Stalemate

John was used to Sherlock locking himself in his room for days on end, leaving only to relieve himself; and even that wasn't often, as he didn't eat or drink while he was in one of those phases. This time, however, wasn't like the others. This time was different.

Sherlock's words echoed in John's head over and over again: _"I can't lose you, John!"_ What did that mean? Did that mean he had feelings for John? Or did it mean John was just his useful tool, an accesory with thumbs to get the milk and deal with bothersome clients, the way Molly was just a useful tool via her connection to Bart's? Was it like Moriarty had said at the pool? _"People do get so sentimental about their pets."_ Or was it something more? Could Sherlock Holmes, self-titled sociopath who saw caring as a disadvantage, have feelings for John? No, it couldn't be. That's not like Sherlock at all. Was it?

There was a muffled bang from Sherlock's room suddenly, and John automatically called out, "Sherlock?"

Sherlock slammed and locked the door behind him, and began pacing wildly about his bedroom. He couldn't believe he'd just lost control like that in front of John; he was always in control, _always_. What had made him snap? He racked his brain, rewinding through everything that had just happened. The woman. It was her fault.

When she'd touched John's knee like that, as if they knew each other intimately, it had set something on fire deep inside of Sherlock. It had taken him a few seconds longer than usual to identify it once it flared up, as he wasn't accustomed to that particular emotion. But there was no denying it was jealousy, just like when John would go out on his dates or bring one of them home.

It made his chest ache, seeing women who hardly wanted John's attention in the first place receive it so easily while he practically begged for theirs. He wanted John to look at him the way he'd looked at Sarah, those brown eyes full of desire and adoration. He caught John with that look sometimes, but he hid it well. Most often he saw the lustful glaze on John's eyes, out of the corner of his eye when he would stretch or when he walked about the flat wrapped in just a sheet.

He knew the desire was there, that John at least felt some degree of sexual attraction to Sherlock, but as John was fixed in the hetereosexual soldier mindset, it was something to be drawn from him gradually. That was the plan, until Sherlock went and turned it all to bullocks when he let his own feelings slip just a few minutes ago. He kicked his empty violin case, and it shot several feet away and hit the wall with a crash. He heard John call his name, but he ignored it. He needed to come up with a plan to ammend the mistake he'd just made before he said another word to John.

There was no response from Sherlock's room, and John rubbed the space where his nose faded into his forehead. Sighing, he walked slowly down the hall and stopped just outside Sherlock's door. Leaning his head close to listen into the room, John tapped his knuckles on the door gently. There was no response, except the little sounds he did hear within the room had stopped. He realized Sherlock must have been pacing, and he could imagine Sherlock staring down the door as if it had betrayed him in some way.

Suddenly, John realized that he wouldn't know what to say if Sherlock opened the door. Surely, Sherlock would expect John to express his own feelings on the matter; sociopath or not, the man was still human, and discourse still worked the same way in these situations.

How did John feel about it? He leaned against the wall and inhaled deeply, realizing that he didn't know. The thoughts had snaked in and out of his consciousness over the course of his and Sherlock's acquaintance. There were times when Sherlock's stretching caught John's attention, or he'd notice the way his pyjama bottoms hung so flatteringly low on Sherlock's hips, or he couldn't look away when the sheet dropped just a little too low and showed the pale small of Sherlock's back, bookended by a dimple on either side.

_Ok,_ John finally released the breath he'd been holding, _so I'm attracted to Sherlock. _All the time he'd been denying it and pushing the thought out of his head, it had been a dead weight on his chest. Now that he'd admitted it, it surprised him by lifting quite a bit; he'd expected the weight to become heavier. John rubbed his eyes and focused on the situation at hand: He was attracted to Sherlock, and Sherlock had feelings for John. What of their relationship now? John knew far too well from experience that after dating goes awry or inclinations to date are expressed, no matter how friendly or mutual the circumstances, the friendship does not last afterwards. Not that John was interested in dating Sherlock; but once one party reveals their feelings to the other, things change.

He couldn't imagine life without Sherlock Holmes; he thought his world had been turned upside-down when he first met the eccentric detective, but in time John had realized that before knowing Sherlock, his world was wrong and Sherlock had turned it right-side-up. But what did this realization mean? Did it mean he had feelings for Sherlock? Or did it mean he just felt a very strong platonic bond with the man? _How are you supposed to tell the difference?_

John surfaced from deep within his thoughts, and remembered that he was standing outside Sherlock's door. No matter what John said, Sherlock wasn't going to come out for a long while now. There was no way John was going to try to communicate to the unresponsive eight-year-old man through a locked door, especially when he had no idea what he wanted to say. For all he knew, Sherlock was angry with himself for confessing his feelings to John—not feelings of affection—but feelings of posession, as if John was an object or his pet, just like Moriarty had suggested.

John ran a hand through his hair and sighed. He was clearly very confused, most likely due to the shock from Sherlock expressing himself so strongly and suddenly, and John needed to sort out his thoughts. Deciding to wait for Sherlock to come out on his own and deal with it whenever that would be, he walked back to the sitting room and switched on the telly to distract him in the meantime.


	8. A Study in Perspective

Sherlock heard the front door slam shut, and wondered where John was going and if he was still angry. Rolling off his bed lazily, Sherlock walked slowly to his door, unlocked it, and opened it. John had been watching telly for the past two hours, and Sherlock glanced at his watch; it was just past five, so John was probably fetching something for dinner. Sherlock's stomach growled and he frowned in annoyance; if they were on a case, he'd be able to ignore it, but they weren't so he had to pay attention to his needs.

Muttering under his breath about transport, Sherlock shuffled to the fridge barefoot (he'd eventually changed into pyjama bottoms and his dressing gown while sulking in his room) and opened it to find a lot of things that were not food. He reached for a bag of thumbs in the crisper drawer, but changed his mind and slammed the fridge shut. There was no way he could concentrate on any of his work now. He settled for a glass of water, and wandered aimlessly around the sitting room.

He found himself dawdling around John's chair, and wondered if he could perceive John's point of view more accurately if he occupied it physically. He sat down gingerly in the chair, as if he was afraid an alarm would sound and he would be ejected from the chair. No such thing happened, of course, and he recalled the position he and the blonde woman had occupied that afternoon. He had been standing by the fireplace, the woman gradually moving from the couch to kneeling beside John's chair. Opening his eyes, he realized this was not right; John was significantly shorter, so his view would have been different. Sherlock slouched in the chair so that he would be at John's eye level. His long legs stretched in front of him awkwardly, but he ignored them.

John was annoyed at Sherlock's rudeness, and he had been staring Sherlock down to make him turn around and acknowledge their guest. Sherlock wrinkled his nose, because he felt that the word was too polite to accurately describe the woman, but he shook his head and refocused on taking on John's perspective.

Sherlock had finally turned around and acknowledged John's speculation as being correct. Even though he was still annoyed, John would have been pleased with himself. He never let on, but he really did strive for praise from Sherlock. The detective had then taken a seat in his chair across from John, and sat in the pose that either intrigued or annoyed John; he could never tell which it was, as his eyes were always closed and he was usually distracted by his thoughts at the time. Sherlock made a mental note to assume to pose at an arbitrary time where he would be able to focus on John's reaction to it.

Returning to his play-by-play of the afternoon, Sherlock recalled that he was trying to delete the woman from memory, assuming she would be put-off by his manners and leave. Instead, he had heard a slight movement and felt a shift in the room, on the other side of his eyelids. He had noticed then that the woman had put her hand on John's knee. John was clearly uncomfortable, and his eyes had glazed over briefly, clearly lost in his own thoughts.

A memory, perhaps? What was it that John had been thinking of? Perhaps other times women had touched him in such an intimate way? Sherlock shuddered to think how intimate John had gotten with any number of women over the years. The woman had continued to beg for John's attention, and Sherlock walked over to defend his John.

_Wait, _my _John? Since when did I call him mine?_ Sherlock interrupted his own thoughts, startled by the way they were presenting themselves. He wished John was his; he was not very good at sharing.

Sherlock shook his head again, and forced his cognitive processes back on track. The woman had begun making indecent proposals, and Sherlock was standing crossly beside John's chair, staring her down. He had felt John's gaze on him, and out of the corner of his eye Sherlock wondered if he'd imagined the lustful spark in his flatmate's eyes. So, from John's perspective, he was annoyed at Sherlock's rudeness, glad for praise, lustful when Sherlock came to his side to defend him, and then… angry for Sherlock's defending him? That didn't make any sense, but that's what had happened.

Sherlock pushed his behind onto the chair properly and hunched over, elbows painfully leaning on his knees through the thin fabric of the dressing gown and pants. He massaged his scalp through the thick curls and shut his eyes, trying to focus.

It seemed to Sherlock that John had conflicting feelings toward's the detective's behavior, which leads him to believe that John had conflicting feelings towards the detective overall. After the clumsy emission that had spilled from Sherlock's lips, John was no doubt further confused and presumably frustrated about his feelings. The natural conclusion from all this is that John doesn't know how he feels about Sherlock, and neither does Sherlock.

"Bullocks," Sherlock muttered bitterly, realizing this conclusion was hardly any help at all. He checked the time again and saw that only ten minutes had passed. He worried suddenly that John had left for good, or maybe even decided to go to a hotel for a while. Sherlock's heart jumped to his throat, and he dashed out of the room and up the stairs to John's bedroom. The door was closed, and Sherlock hoped it wasn't locked, or else he'd have to pick it and John might notice. Luckily, it wasn't, and Sherlock opened the door slowly, peering into John's tidy bedroom.

He sighed in relief upon seeing John's things scattered about the room, the closet still full and the beddings still there, neatly folded up to the single pillow John used. Just as soon as he'd felt relief for John's absence being classified as temporary, he realized that also meant he needed to evacuate John's room quickly, before he returned to the flat. Sherlock descended the stairs quickly and quietly after closing the door behind him, and peeked out the window overlooking Baker Street. Cars were whizzing by, as it was the end of the work day, but a cab containing John was not in sight.

Sherlock maintained a vigil at the window, standing in just a certain way such that John would not be able to see him looking out, waiting for John to return. Just after 5:30, a cab pulled up and John got out, carrying takeaway bags. The plurality of bags caused Sherlock to blush slightly, as it meant that John had gotten food for Sherlock as well. Sherlock left his position at the window and retreated into his room, closing and locking the door so that everything was as it had been before John left.

John shut the door to 221B behind him with his foot and climbed the stairs slowly, weighed down by bags of Chinese takeaway for himself and Sherlock. He hoped to find Sherlock playing his violin or on his laptop in the sitting room, as if nothing had happened that afternoon, but instead he found the sitting room and kitchen empty. Before crossing the threshold into the kitchen, John glanced up the stairs at his bedroom door, out of habit; it was closed, just as he had left it, but that didn't mean that Sherlock hadn't been up there.

Shaking his head, he dropped his load onto the table. He knew Sherlock could smell the food by now and had heard him come in, but John still called to him anyway, "Got Chinese tonight, Sherlock! Get it while it's hot!"

There was no response from Sherlock, and for all John knew, the consulting detective had vacated the building. He knew he hadn't, though, as even if they were in the midst of a row, when a case came up (aka the only reason Sherlock ever left the flat), the two still went to the scene or Scotland Yard together. It turned into a professional business partnership when they were working on a case.

Several hours later, after John had finished eating and put the leftovers for Sherlock into the fridge, he realized it was coming on 10:00 and he was nodding off at the show he didn't recognize that was flashing on the telly. He turned it off, stretched, and retired to his room upstairs for the night.

Sherlock had spent those four hours re-organizing his books in his room, for the lack of something better to do. He didn't feel up to the violin, as much as it helped him think. When he heard John's footfalls on the stairs and the door close behind him, Sherlock waited a few more minutes before sneaking out of his room to look for leftovers in the kitchen.

As he ate, he began to worry that John was lying in bed above him, mulling over the events of the afternoon. Sherlock feared that the more John thought about it, the less inclined he was to stay at 221B. What if he decided to wake up early tomorrow morning and leave? It was then that the detective realized he wasn't going to get any sleep that night.


	9. A Proper Talk

John woke up with the sun, as usual, despite not having work today. He stretched and threw on his dressing gown over his T-shirt and shorts before groggily descending the stairs to the main floor of the flat. He heard the telly before he'd reached the bottom, and upon entering the sitting room, he found Sherlock slumped over on the couch, half-sitting, half-lying down with the remote on the floor below his hand. A half-smile twitched on John's face and, grabbing a blanket from the linen closet, he gently laid it across the sleeping detective. Sherlock shifted in his sleep and slid down so he was lying down properly, pulling the blanket up to his chin.

John grinned and shook his head, turning off the telly and walking into the kitchen to make some tea. He moved about quietly, used to being up well before Sherlock for early shifts at the hospital. He caught the kettle just before it whistled, and as the tea steeped and its aroma filled the flat, the gangly pile of limbs on the sofa stirred. John calmly walked over, carrying two cups of tea, and set one down on the coffee table in front of Sherlock.

"Morning, Sherlock," John said, taking a seat at the desk with his tea and laptop.

Sherlock mumbled incoherently in response, sitting up and blinking away the sleep in his eyes until he could see clearly. He realized that he had fallen asleep on the sofa, and waited for his brain to wake up like an idling computer to try to remember why.

"Once you're awake and able to think properly," John said with the gentle firmness of a parent talking to their child, "We need to have a talk. A proper talk, mind."

With John's statement and his first sip of tea, Sherlock's memory rushed back in a wave of clarity and, fully awake now, he remembered the incident of his confession to John the day before. He groaned and his cheeks flushed, and he turned his back to John so he couldn't see.

The two men drank their morning tea in silence, and it wasn't until John had placed their empty cups in the sink that either of them spoke. "Right, then. No doubt you're awake by now." Re-entering the sitting room, John sat purposefully beside Sherlock on the couch, such that he could intercept Sherlock if he tried to leave. John took a deep breath, and he could feel the awkward tension in the room squeezing his chest already. "So, yesterday, you—"

"I know perfectly well what I said, John," Sherlock said irritably, slouching against the couch and assuming his arms-crossed, knees-bent pouting position.

"Right," John said, scratching his head before continuing, "So… let's cut to the chase, then. What did you mean, exactly?"

"That question is terribly vague," Sherlock pointed out, glaring down at his toes.

John rubbed his eyes and took slow, deep breaths. He couldn't lose his patience or else he'd never get any meaningful response from Sherlock. He took one more deep breath before plunging in, straight to the point, "I meant, why can't you lose me? Am I just useful to have around, like Molly? Am I a distraction to keep you from being bored? Am I… something else? What am I to you, Sherlock?"

"Yes," Sherlock replied ambiguously. There was a pause before he continued, "Yes, you are useful. Yes, you keep me from being bored, albeit barely," John smirked, "And yes, you are… a bit more than that."

"What sort of 'a bit more?'" John prodded, trying to be aware of Sherlock's body language and facial expressions to pick up a sense of his genuineness and any hint of emotion, but Sherlock was too good at masking it all to appear disinterested and detached.

Sherlock's toes curled, gripping the edge of the couch like a perched bird or a monkey, and he spoke slowly, "You intrigue me, John; you interest me. You seem to bring out a sharpness and clarity in my deductions while we're on cases together that makes me feel quite dull when you're not there. However, caring is still a disadvantage, and you bring out the worst in me through that. You introduced the emotional, human element into my psyche that I usually repel to the nth degree. I care for and about you, John, and I draw from your strength which adds to mine, but you also pull from my strength because emotions have never been an issue with me, until I met you. As an object of study in relevance to myself, you are a fascinating specimen."

John nodded, gratefully taking in the praise but holding off on enjoying it until after they were through with their discussion. "So… I'm your subject? And if I leave, your study is spoiled."

"No, John," Sherlock said, finally looking up to meet John's eyes, "You're my friend." The word tasted strange in Sherlock's mouth, as he'd never used it in that context before. He'd never had an interest in friendship or any sort of social relationships, as he saw them as a harmful distraction from his work and studies. John was a distraction, but Sherlock enjoyed being distracted somehow. It was all so terribly confusing.

Seeing the honest vulnerability in Sherlock's eyes made John pity the man, because he was only just now having the experience of feeling kinship towards another person. "Sherlock, honestly, I'm flattered," John began, realizing he was echoing Sherlock's own words from their awkward conversation at Angelo's when they first met (oh, how the tables have turned!), "You should know—which you probably already do know—that I consider you as my closest friend. You always say caring is a disadvantage, but when you have someone that you trust with their life who trusts you with theirs, it's a huge advantage when you're in dangerous situations like the ones we've been in. That's why the army works so well, you know." John offered a small smile, and Sherlock smirked. The detective looked relieved, but John couldn't rest easy just yet.

"But, I don't see how my dating anyone could ever make a mark on our friendship," John pointed out slowly and carefully. "Most blokes have girlfriends _and_ a best mate. I'd imagine you know how a wedding works, Sherlock? With the best man and all?" Sherlock's brow creased, which told John he didn't know, but he was certainly not going to admit it. "You don't know how that works? Christ, Sherlock, this stuff _is_ relevant, you know!"

"I beg to differ," Sherlock replied, his irritability flaring up again. He wasn't in the mood for another conversation about the solar system.

"Right," John sighed and began to explain in a rush, "When a bloke gets married, he picks his best mate to stand with him during the ceremony, and that's called the best man. The point is, Sherlock, regardless of whoever I'm dating, they don't replace you. You're my best mate, and you probably always will be, God help me."

"I appreciate your… sentiment, John, but I know you well enough that if a case was too dangerous and would impact your wife or children," those are two things Sherlock definitely did not want to think about John having, "You wouldn't take it. Marriage turns a man ordinary, John."

"And you don't want me to be an ordinary bloke?" John asked, already knowing the answer. He bit his tongue against declaring very definitively that he never intends to have children.

"It's not in your nature," was Sherlock's enigmatic response.

"But I _am _an ordinary bloke, Sherlock," John argued vehemently.

Sherlock turned on the couch, sitting sideways so that his entire body faced John now, and said, "You're a war veteran with the manners, muscle, and literal chip on your shoulder to prove it. When we met, you had a psychosomatic limp and heavily-guarded trust issues, and you were plagued with night terrors of flashbacks from the war. And yet you trusted me immediately, abandoned your limp via running halfway across London and shooting a stranger to save the life of a man you had only just met, and yet already agreed to share a flat with. You convince yourself that you lust after women, John, but you really only truly lust for danger and intelligence. You have a strong moral code and a high sense of responsibility, and somehow you've managed to make a sociopath who considers emotions a nuisance become very distractedly and definitively smitten with you. You are not ordinary, Dr. Watson; you are _extra_ordinary."

John blinked, stunned by Sherlock's words. There was so much to take in from that wave of verbosity, it took John a few minutes to take it all in. The way Sherlock often knew John better than John knew himself, and with greater acuity, was unsettling, but he had grown accustomed to it. This summation of John's character, and its evolution since meeting Sherlock, was even more disconcerting. Finally, John decided he needed to focus on the fact that Sherlock had confessed he is smitten with him.

"Jesus…" John breathed, dragging both his hands from his forehead down to his chin. He'd suspected that Sherlock had feelings for him, after that confession the day before, but actually hearing Sherlock say it himself was something else entirely. Sherlock had clammed up since his latest confession, and his cheeks were slightly pink. John felt embarrassed for his friend.

"Sherlock, I… I don't know what to say. I am absolutely flattered, really. I truly am. But you know, I don't—I only fancy women. I'm sorry, but—"

Sherlock interrupted hurriedly, "No, of course. No, I know."

"Right, yeah, of course you know," John said, rubbing his forehead and feeling like an insensitive idiot.

"I wasn't asking for… anything. I just…" For once, Sherlock was at a loss for words.

"No, of course not. It's not… it's not like you. You've said before, you're married to your work."

"Yes," Sherlock cursed himself mentally for having said that. Of course he wanted to persue a more intimate relationship with John! It was very unlike him to want such a thing, but he wanted it regardless.

"Right. So, just clearing the air, then," John said, and Sherlock mumbled assent, looking very sheepish and distracted. John was grateful that Sherlock had never intended John to know, as he had no intention to persue a more intimate relationship. It was just a slip of Sherlock's tongue regarding emotions he was not accustomed to having. John licked his lips and made to get up off the couch. "So I'll… leave you to it, then." John wasn't sure what, exactly, "it" was, but he needed to evacuate the tense room. He exited the sitting room quickly, and very shortly thereafter got in the shower.

Sherlock was left on the couch, feeling particularly sulky. Why had he just lied to John about something so important? Why were his emotions suddenly dominating his thoughts so often? And most important of all, why did he care so damned much?


	10. Sherlock Holmes Doesn't Have Friends

They were just going to be staying in a room together. Their flat was close living quarters, and often they were in the same room, so the bedroom in the bed & breakfast was no different. They would just be sleeping in the same room, which was likely to be small and furnished with oversized furniture, judging by the décor of the eating area of the restaurant. Sherlock froze in his aimless exploration of the bed & breakfast as a thought suddenly occurred to him: what if they had to share a bed? He'd never shared a bed with anyone before. People, as part of mammalian instincts, tended to huddle close together unconsciously. What if they woke up in each other's arms? How would John react? Sherlock clawed at his skull through his curls, unable to hide his agitation. He strolled back into the main room, where John was still speaking with the bartender.

"Ever seen it?" John asked, and Sherlock perked up at John's reference to the Hound.

"Me? No," the man pointed towards the doorway at a young man with a sign around his neck and said, "Fletcher has. He runs the walks, the monster walks for the tourists."

Now that Sherlock had something other than John to focus on, he swiftly exited the building and strolled towards the table where the man called Fletcher had just sat down. Like a gear shift on a bicycle, Sherlock's mind turned from feelings to witness manipulation, grateful for the return to his natural state of mind.

Sherlock was curled into a tight ball on the overly plush bed, racking his brain on how to apologize to John. Apologies weren't something he'd ever paid much mind to, as they didn't interest him. He usually didn't care about other people's feelings enough to express—or even feel—regret over his own words. But he cared about John, and he didn't want John to be cross with him after what he'd said by the fire that night.

He punched the bed angrily and sat up, hugging his knees anxiously. He wished he hadn't removed the unneccesary pillows from the bed all at once, because he felt the sudden urge to throw one. Sherlock glared at the overstuffed decorative pillows on the floor as if it was their fault that John was angry with him.

Two impatient taps on the door announced John's return, and after waiting a moment, he entered the room. Sherlock watched as John pointedly avoided looking at him, strutting angrily towards his overnight bag on the loveseat against the wall.

"John…" Sherlock began timidly, but the doctor shot him down.

"Don't even bother, Sherlock," he spat bitterly as he began undressing with his back to Sherlock. The detective wanted to watch this never-before-seen process, but his vague sense of tact told him it was best to look away. After John had stripped down to his undershirt and shorts, he walked back across the room and into the bathroom. Sherlock listened while John relieved himself, washed his hands, and brushed his teeth. There was the sound of opening and closing cabinet doors until Sherlock heard John find the small linen closet. Moments later, John returned with a ragged afghan draped over one arm. Sherlock was momentarily distracted by John's bare thighs before he realized what the afghan meant.

"You don't have to—" Sherlock began, but John interrupted again as he selected a pillow from the pile Sherlock had created on the floor.

"Just shut it, Sherlock," he snapped, carrying the blanket and pillow to the loveseat and lying down with his back to Sherlock.

Sherlock curled his lips in on themselves, as if afraid they would be bitten off. He truly regretted his comment about not having friends, as much as he had sincerely meant it. John didn't take it the way Sherlock intended, however; he had focused on the friend concept. Sherlock had meant that he didn't have friends; there is too much gray area in platonic friendships. They are easily forsaken for higher levels of intimacy, the most common being lovers. John could go on about the best mate in weddings all he wanted, but all a wedding meant was that friends didn't matter anymore. Sherlock couldn't afford to invest his time or emotions into a friendship, especially when he knew he would eventually be abandoned.

Sherlock had two types of relationships: one was enemies, such as Moriarty and Mycroft (entirely different classes, mind you). Sherlock didn't want an ambiguous platonic friendship with John; that was a meaningless relationship. What Sherlock wanted was a partnership with John; a lifelong bond that came before everything and everyone else. John hadn't understood this, of course; he thought Sherlock meant he had no friends, as in no comradery or close relationship with anyone, when really Sherlock meant that a friend was far too weak and brittle a word to describe what John was to him.

John was the love of his life, and Sherlock had found a way to toss all chances of reciprocation out the window. He fell face-first into the pillows and groaned, his own breath heating his mashed face. Why didn't John understand? He was supposed to be the expert on human emotions and interpersonal relationships. Why didn't he see what Sherlock had meant? He already knows that Sherlock has feelings for him. Is that why John was angry? John had a large catalogue of emotions, as most people do, but a very limited collection of emotional expression. When he was confused, hurt, afraid, or disappointed, he expressed it as anger.

Sherlock ran through the possibility of each of those emotions in his head, trying to pinpoint which one John was feeling this time. Was he hurt? Sherlock hoped not, because that's the last thing he wanted to do, was hurt John. He was used to disappointing him, though it happened less often now than it did earlier in their relationship. He could handle disappointing, angering, or confusing John. He often did those on purpose when he was bored. He couldn't handle hurting John, though; the remedy for hurt was comfort, and Sherlock had absolutely no idea how that was supposed to work when it was genuine. He could fake it easily enough, but he'd never genuinely felt the need to comfort someone before. How does that even work? John would know, but that's exactly the problem. John knows how to fix it and Sherlock doesn't, and Sherlock knows he loves John, but John doesn't seem to realize it.

It's no wonder he avoided emotional involvement with other people, because it was all too complicated and distracting. Sliding beneath the covers of the large bed, Sherlock curled into a ball and fell into a deep, troubled sleep.


	11. John Watson Doesn't Fancy Men

Sherlock was at the kitchen table, making the rounds to each of his experiments to check their progress in his and John's absence. They had arrived from Baskerville after solving the case of the H.O.U.N.D. project about half an hour ago, and Sherlock was just about finished with his checking-up. John was in the shower, which had just been shut off as Sherlock sat down at his most pressing, time-sensitive experiment and reviewed his notes from the past week since he'd started it.

The bathroom door opened down the hall, and Sherlock heard John's steady footfalls on the hardwood as he approached the sitting room. Whenever he didn't have a shift at the hospital, John liked to laze about in his robe and shorts, reading the paper and checking the blog before getting properly dressed. Sherlock didn't completely understand it, but he was far from complaining.

Sherlock was glad that John had understanded his ineloquent and brief apology the day before, for what he had said at the fire in Baskerville. He hated having to lie to John and call him his friend, when he was so much more than that, but he had said what John wanted to hear, and expressed genuine remorse.

He glanced up and saw the back of John's head as the man took a seat in his chair with a contented sigh; John's hair was dark blonde when it was wet, and it was finger-combed straight back from his forehead. The overlapping ends of his short hair were spiky and the droplets of water that clinged to them shone in the light.

Sherlock was mesmerized by post-shower John, and he shook his head to clear his thoughts. He had to focus on this experiment; it was regarding the feigned appearance of healing blisters on human thumbs. Using certain chemicals and certain storage environment control, one could make wounds on a body appear to have healed more than they actually had. Sherlock had seen it done with many murderers before, and it was a technique only the most expertise deviants used to throw off the estimated time of death for forensics reports. Of course, it didn't throw off all of the estimates; only the amateurs like Anderson and most of the local forensics specialists in any town that Sherlock has had experience with. John was almost never wrong when he declared time of death; Sherlock could always rely on him for his medical knowledge and expertise.

Sherlock looked away from the severed thumb in his gloved hand, and over towards the sitting room where John was just folding the newspaper over. The doctor stood up and crossed the room to the desk, upon which his laptop sat. Sherlock admired the now-dry hairs on John's muscular legs, and his breath caught when John sat down, and the robe slid upwards, revealing the very bottom edge of his gray shorts. Sherlock felt the familiar churning in his lower abdomen, and he stared at the thumb in his hand, trying to will it away, but he couldn't. All he could think of was how strong John's legs must be, and how the muscles would feel as Sherlock traced them with his fingers, through the curled hair on his thighs. He stole a glance at his lap and saw—even though he already felt it—that he had the beginnings of an erection. Sherlock groaned, not meaning for it to actually escape his throat.

"You alright?" John asked, not recognizing the strange sound that his flatmate had just made. Sherlock's cheeks were flushed and he looked extremely uncomfortable. "You're not ill, are you? You look flushed." John abandoned his laptop and strode over to where Sherlock sat. Damn those muscles and the way they moved in John's thighs and calves, just begging to be touched.

"I'm fine," Sherlock mumbled, but John either didn't hear or he simply didn't pay any mind to it. The back of the doctor's hand touched Sherlock's forehead, and the detective knew his flatmate felt heat.

"You're feverish," the concern in John's voice caused a tightness in Sherlock's chest that he didn't completely understand. When John put his hand gently on the back of Sherlock's neck, gooseflesh became very visible on his exposed forearms. The heat and tension in Sherlock's groin increased, and he wanted to run away and lock the door to his room and take care of things as he usually did after John had his shower, but he couldn't. It was too late now. John would see. "Sherlock, are you alright?"

"I need some," the words left Sherlock's mouth before he could stop them. A small part of him didn't regret it.

John immediately transformed from concerned friend to disappointed flatmate. He frowned and shook his head, saying, "No, Sherlock. You've been doing well. You know the deal."

"No, not that," Sherlock snapped quickly—too quickly—waving it off with an impatient hand. He cursed himself mentally for his compulsive need to correct people when they were wrong. He didn't want cigarettes—well, he did, but that want paled in comparison to his want for John's body. He wanted to touch and taste John, feel how he moved when he was aroused. And just like that, Sherlock decided he would find out. Right now.

John's frown changed shape, and the lines on his face rearranged in a confused expression. "What, then?" Sherlock didn't answer, because he didn't know how to answer. Even if he _did _want to ask for what he wanted, he wouldn't have known what to say. The confusion on John's face turned back to intense concern, and John squatted in front of Sherlock so that his face was only just below the detective's, so he couldn't hide his face from him. "You're not on anything else, are you?"

"No!" Sherlock exclaimed indignantly.

"What do you want, Sherlock?"

"I…" Sherlock began, still formulating his plan, then seemed to gather himself before saying, "I want _you_, John."

"Right, Sherlock, we've been over this—" John began, but was swiftly interrupted by an extremely irritated Sherlock.

"No, John, we haven't. I lied. When I said I wasn't looking for anything beyond friendship, I lied. I simply can't bear the thought of our relationship being a friendship; such a fleeting, temporary, shallow thing. It's fun until it gets boring or something better comes along, and then you move on to the next bloke. No, that's not us, John. This is a lifelong bond we have, and you know it."

"I know I know it," John argued, looking surprised, "I said it myself when we discussed it before."

"You've also come to terms with the fact that you find me attractive," Sherlock pointed out with a sideways glance at John.

"What?" John sputtered incredulously, "How did you—what makes you think that?"

"I've seen it, John," Sherlock said, setting down the thumb and removing his glove. "The way you look at me when I first wake up with my sheet around me," Sherlock stood up and turned to face John, who looked frightened in that military guared way, "When the drawstring on my pjyama bottoms isn't drawn as tightly as it should be, or when I have to remove my shirt because some sort of stain soiled it. I've noticed you noticing, John. You are attracted to me."

John gulped and licked his lips before looking up into the face that was uncomfortably close to his, saying, "What of it?"

Sherlock grinned at the lack of denial on John's part and said, "I'm attracted to you, and you're attracted to me. When two adults find themselves in this sort of situation," Sherlock gently took John's wrist for his pulse, "Certain acts tend to follow."

"Sherlock, I don't—" John began, but Sherlock placed a slender finger on John's lips; they were very dry.

"You're used to being the dominant one," Sherlock went on, "the alpha male dominating a female. These circumstances are foreign to you, as they are not in your past experience." Sherlock stepped forward, causing John to step back. It was as if they were doing the tango in slow-motion, without even touching each other. "But you like the looks of this, even though it frightens you."

"Sherlock, I don't fancy men," John insisted, clearly flustered and unable to take his eyes off Sherlock's that shone with mischief.

"Don't you?" Sherlock raised an eyebrow and smirked, glancing down at John's crotch. There was a very obvious protrusion visible beneath John's robe. John's breathing was labored now, and he was sweating a bit; he'd noticed Sherlock had an erection of his own, and they were mere centimeters apart. "There's quite a lot of evidence to the contrary, John. See?" Sherlock canted his hips gently so that their erections touched briefly, and while he sighed, John gasped and his defenses were down.

Taking advantage of this opportunity, Sherlock grabbed John's wrists and pinned him against the fridge, arms above his head. John's eyes bulged in surprise, and his pupils were attempting to take over the entirety of his eyes. Noses and erections touching now, Sherlock and John breathed on each other's faces for a few moments.

"Just admit that you want me, John," Sherlock said, his eyes boring into John's.

"But I don't," John said, panting slightly, "I don't fancy men!"

"Really, John, this level of denial is atrocious, even for you. If you were genuinely uncomfortable with this situation, you and I both know full well that you are significantly stronger than I am. You would force me off of you so that you get to be free of this entrapment. But here you are." John squirmed, but Sherlock's grip tightened. He had both of John's wrists in one hand; his other hand was tracing John's lips. "Your lips are so dry, John. Here, let me help," Sherlock leaned forward and gently dragged his tongue across John's upper lip, and then the bottom, leaving a shining trail of saliva in its wake.

"Sherlock…" John half-groaned, half-mumbled, his eyelids drooping slightly.

That was as close as Sherlock was going to get to an invitation, so he captured John's mouth with his and kissed him mercilessly. The two men gasped and moaned into each other's mouths, and John's hips reflexively canted forward, brushing his erection against Sherlock's. Sherlock moaned into John's mouth, and John could feel the moan hit the back of his throat as he opened his mouth wider to accept Sherlock's tongue. Sherlock hardly had time to explore John's mouth before his tongue was suddenly captured and being… _Oh!_ John was sucking on Sherlock's tongue as if it excreted the elixir of life, and Sherlock groaned loudly, his sweaty hand slipping from John's wrists.

John's freed arms wrapped around Sherlock, his hands splayed across the detective's back, pulling him closer so that every inch of their fronts were touching. They continued this snogfest until Sherlock regained control over himself and pulled his face gently away from John's. The doctor's eyes were glazed with lust and fiery with passion, like a candle behind frosted glass, as he searched Sherlock's face for an explanation for the end of their kissing.

Sherlock dipped his head down, one hand pulling on the back of John's head and the other gripping his waist, as he began attacking John's warm neck with kisses. He found a particularly soft spot, just above the juncture between neck and shoulder, that he simply could not get enough of. He planted his lips firmly on the spot and sucked on it, pulling the delicious John-ness out of it, causing the doctor to moan loudly. When he was done, but before he lifted his mouth from the spot, Sherlock sank his teeth into the sensitive flesh with a low, posessive growl that sounded vaguely like he had said something.

"Aah! God, Sherlock… what was that? What did you just say?" John asked between gasps of pleasure as Sherlock dragged his tongue across John's exposed collarbone.

Sherlock reluctantly removed his mouth from John's neck to look directly into John's eyes, and John felt a surge of heat rush to his insistent hard-on when he saw the fire in Sherlock's eyes. It was all passion, and it was burning him up. "Mine, John. I said 'mine.'"

"Mine?" John asked, not catching on right away, as most of his blood was being relocated.

"Yes, John, you're mine," Sherlock said decisively, hardly leaving space for punctuation in his sentence before pressing his lips against John's hungrily. His hands had been wandering on John's arms and shoulders, but now they wanted to go elsewhere. He slid them beneath either side of the V of John's robe and cupped his hands around John's pecs.

"Mmm," John hummed as Sherlock's long, elegant fingers traced his chest and nipples. John hissed with a sharp intake of breath when Sherlock pinched his nipple, and nearly cooed when Sherlock gently massaged them with his palms. Sherlock purred when he heard John cooing and began rotating his hips to create friction between their burning pricks.

After several minutes of this grinding and massaging and sighing, Sherlock lowered his hands to the tie of John's robe and undid it, pulling the robe open. His eyes widened when he saw how large John's prick was; he had expected it to be smaller, given John's stature and the size of his hands, but he was very pleasantly surprised to be wrong, for once. Sherlock traced the trail of hair on John's navel down to the mass of dark blonde curls, stopping when he reached the base of John's prick. He admired the precum shining on the head, and the eager veins supporting the boastful hard-on in the hopes of receiving appropriate attention.

Sherlock wrapped his hand around John's length, which released a sigh from the latter, and Sherlock hummed in pleasure when he admired how his hand looked with a firm hold on John's prick. He began slowly stroking up and down, up and down, and John leaned his head back against the fridge, eyes closed and jaw slack. Sherlock stopped stroking, his fingers wrapped around the head, and squeezed. John cried out in pain, which alarmed Sherlock.

"Sorry, so sorry," Sherlock murmured sincerely, gently circling John's circumference now.

"No, fuck, Sherlock, that was bloody brilliant," John panted, squeezing the bony shoulders he had a firm grip on.

"But it hurt you," Sherlock argued.

"It was a good hurt," John assured him, laying a hand on Sherlock's to encourage him to continue. Sherlock obeyed and went back to stroking before trying again to squeeze. John cried out again, his face twisting in absolute agony. But good agony, apparently, Sherlock reminded himself. He took his index finger and began circling the slick head, around and around and around, and then he slid his finger quickly across the tip. John squeezed Sherlock's shoulders with a gasp, and quickly slid his hands down to grasp Sherlock's hips. He realized then that Sherlock was still clothed. He opened his eyes and looked Sherlock up and down.

"What is it?" Sherlock asked anxiously; he thought he'd been doing well.

"You've still got your bloody clothes on," John grunted, his voice deepened with his arousal, "I want them off. I need to see you." Sherlock obeyed quickly, with some assistance from John, and in seconds he was defrocked. The look on John's face as he took in Sherlock's naked appearance was too much for him to bear. He gripped John's hips and pulled him against his body, both men crying out when their pricks touched.

Their mouths met again with sloppy kisses and over-eager tongues, and both Sherlock and John panted into each other's mouths, Sherlock's bare chest trembling against John's thick curls. When they pulled apart, Sherlock wrapped his hand around John's prick and began pumping in earnest, desperate to make John come. John's fingers dug into Sherlock's hips as he gritted his teeth and hiss-breathed between them, the occasional grunt jumping from his throat. It wasn't long before John's abdomen and balls clenched, and he bellowed as his cock convulsed, sending ribbons of his release onto his stomach, Sherlock's stomach, and Sherlock's hand.

Before John could recover from the havoc Sherlock had just wreaked through his body, He felt Sherlock's hand slide up John's cock one last time, and when he looked down, "_Oh God_, Sherlock…"

Sherlock had gathered some of John's cum in his hand and was using it to lubricate his own prick, pumping and stroking himself mercilessly. His face was twisted in anticipatory agony until finally his mouth rounded into a perfect "O" and he keened as his prick spurt in earnest. Sherlock had slid to the floor with his back against a table leg by the time his release was complete. John stood by the fridge, awestruck at what he had just witnessed. It was the dirtiest, most desparate thing he had ever seen, and it had nearly turned him hard again.

Sherlock's eyes had been closed, but when he opened them, he found John sitting on the floor, facing him with his back against the fridge. Small splashes of semen decorated the tiles between them. John's stomach was slick with cum, and Sherlock realized the same must be true for himself. His right hand was coated in the stuff as well, but he couldn't possibly care less; he had just had the most amazing experience of his entire life.

He looked up at John, somewhat bashfully, as he'd never done something like that for pleasure (he'd done plenty experiments, of course). It was absolutely thrilling. He could do it all day and all night. He reached out his clean hand and rested it on John's knee with a small smile. John looked at his hand, followed the forearm to the eblow to the bicep to the shoulder, up the neck and to the face. He had a dazed look about him, but when he looked at Sherlock, something wiped away the daze and replaced it with something bad.

John scrambled up from the floor quickly, as if just realizing he was very late for something very important, and hastened to wrap his robe closed and tied it back up again. Sherlock laughed—a genuine laugh—and said, "No need to fret, John, it's only us in the flat."

"No," John said, turning away from Sherlock and pacing between the kitchen and the sitting room, running his hand through his dissheveled hair. He continued repeating this word as he paced. Something between his neck and right shoulder felt strange. He put his hand to it, and immediately felt tender skin and a shot of pain. He removed his hand and hurried to the bathroom to examine it in the mirror. Not understanding what had come over John, Sherlock stood up slowly and found paper towels to dry himself with.

"Jesus!" John shouted from the bathroom, and Sherlock hurried over, despite being fully naked. He found John before the mirror, examining the gorgeous hickey Sherlock had marked him with. It was a purple-and-red rose-shaped bruise with teeth marks around it. Sherlock licked his lips, recalling the taste of John's delicious skin there. Seeing Sherlock reflected behind him in the mirror, John's face turned to fury and he spun on his heel to face Sherlock.

"What's wrong?" Sherlock asked, wondering if it was customary for people to become angry after sexual activity.

"You! You did this! And I… I let you!" John sputtered, his lack of annunciation made up for in volume.

"Well, yes, you quite liked it," Sherlock said, a quizzical expression on his face.

"But I'm not-!" John began, then shook his head and continued, voice still raised but no longer shouting, "I'm. Not. Gay."

"Right, because you fancy both women _and_ men, so that would make you bisexual. Or pansexual, depending on—" John's shouting interrupted Sherlock's sentence.

"I AM NOT A HOMOSEXUAL OR A BISEXUAL OR POTS AND PANS OR WHATEVER BLOODY ELSE YOU THINK I AM!" John bellowed, a crazed look taking over his typically calm countenance that resembled his frenzied state during Sherlock's HOUND experiment.

"But John, you—" Sherlock began, but John interrupted again.

"You forced this on me! You… you took advantage of me!" John was in Sherlock's face now, his finger dangerously close to Sherlock's left eye.

Sherlock backed away calmly and said, "No, you let me do it. I told you that you could stop me at any time, but you didn't."

"You took advantage of me when my head wasn't on right," John said quietly, a low growl that sounded extremely dangerous. Sherlock was frightened now, and also highly aware of his nakedness. Sherlock had no time to consider a reply, however, because John stormed past him and up the stairs, slamming and locking his bedroom door behind him.

Sherlock retreated to the kitchen, and found the evidence of their activities still shining on the floor in front of the fridge. Sighing, he swiped some paper towels over it before getting a shower to contemplate what had come over John.


	12. This Is Not the Solar System

John hadn't spoken to Sherlock in two full days since their intimate encounter in the kitchen. He made a point not to occupy the same space as Sherlock only when it was absolutely neccesary, such as visiting the kitchen for a bite to eat. The tension was high in the flat, and with every passing minute, it only got worse.

"It inconveniences you just as much as it displeases me," Sherlock pointed out while John was impatiently tapping his fingers on the counter while the kettle warmed up. As usual, John didn't respond, even though he knew Sherlock was right. He'd be damned if the man was ever wrong about anything, ever. At least the two men agreed on one point: avoiding Mycroft at all costs. Mrs. Hudson came to their rescue with that, because if it upset both her boys, she would set to keeping it away, no matter the reason.

"We can't keep ignoring this, John," Sherlock said after another minute had passed. "My brother will find a way to get to us. And when he does, we both know he will figure out what happened. Would you rather Mycroft knew about it or that we discussed it now to clear the air?" John still didn't respond, and Sherlock's patience was worn thin. "Why must you behave like such a petulant child?" Sherlock demanded angrily, rolling his eyes up at the ceiling.

"I'm the child? I'm—no, Sherlock, _you're_ the child. I'm the adult in this flat who does the shopping and minds the bills and has a job. You're the one who lounges around in his dressing own all day, complaining of boredom!" John snapped suddenly, turning to face Sherlock for the first time in 48 hours.

Sherlock stood from his chair and approched John cautiously, stopping at the threshold between the sitting room and kitchen. He was carefully avoiding any déjà vu of how their intimate encounter had begun two days before.

"John," the doctor opened his mouth to interrupt, but Sherlock held up a pale hand to stop him, continuing, "Let me speak. On Sunday, I acted on primal urges that were intensified through my strong affections for you. I pinned your arms back as a test; if you didn't like it or didn't want to accept my advances, you could have easily broken free and struck me to make your point clear. You did not, and I took your physical submission as acceptance regarding my advances. When we made contact, you were aggressive and actively involved throughout the episode. Correct me if I'm wrong." John nodded solemnly, his jaw set, but compliant with Sherlock's request for silent attention.

"Then when we'd finished, you panicked and seemed to have had temporary amnesia of what we'd just done. You shouted at me, asserting your heterosexuality, and then angrily withdrew from my company. It seems that you are in denial of your true sexuality, and rather than directing it inward, you redirect your anger to a focused target as your military training taught you to do."

There was silence, as Sherlock now appeared to be expecting John to speak up. John's thoughts were a blur as he tried to piece together everything that had happened, everything Sherlock had said, and everything that he was feeling. Of course Sherlock was right, but John needed time to think about it on his own, without his hormones overriding rational thought. But he couldn't tell Sherlock; the man was far too impatient to allow John time to think it over.

Taking a deep breath, John rubbed the bridge of his nose and said, "Sherlock, I'm sorry for shouting at you. I was just overwhelmed and confused. But what happened on Sunday, that had nothing to do with you. Personally, I mean," John added, seeing the confusion on Sherlock's face. "It was just hormones. I was frustrated because I'm in a bit of a dry spell lately, and when you approached me… you were just a warm, willing body. I'm sorry, but that's all it was." John hated lying to Sherlock, but he had no other choice. He needed to sort out his thoughts before he shared them and made decisions based on them.

Sherlock was perplexed; he couldn't get an accurate reading from John. Either he was lying, or he was extremely tired. Given the thoughts and the tension that had been taking up so much space in the flat lately, Sherlock wouldn't be surprised if John had been losing sleep the way he had been. He focused on John's eyes, and saw they were bloodshot with purple shadow beneath them, and deduced with dismay that John was not lying, but instead just very tired and uncomfortable with what had transpired between them.

"Alright," Sherlock said, and he couldn't keep his head from hanging in disappointment. "I'm sorry, John. Truly, I am."

"I know you are," John said with a small smile, but it fell from his face quickly. He added, "Let's just… forget this, that it ever happened. Delete it from your memory palace, like you did with the solar system." John raised his eyebrows at Sherlock with his suggestion and gave him a curt nod before he turned and went back upstairs to his room.

_Forget this. Delete it._ John's words echoed in Sherlock's ears, as if from a distance. How could he delete this? Even if he wanted to delete it, he couldn't.

There was an entire wing in Sherlock's mind palace dedicated to John, and this episode had added a refridgerator and a vial of warm ejaculate to the hall set aside for Sherlock's sexual attraction to John. There was a life-sized chart of the human muscular system on the wall, with the muscles shaped and sized to match with Dr. John Watson's build. Beside the poster was the fridge, and beside that was a table bearing a glass display case with the vial of semen.

Sherlock had visited this room frequently in the last 48 hours; whenever he opened the vial, he could hear John's grunts and moans and smell John's musky pheromones. When he dipped his finger in the vial, he could feel John's throbbing prick in his hand as it jerked and spilled its release onto his hand and stomach. When he licked his dipped finger, Sherlock could taste John the way he had when he stole a lick from his hand while John had run off to the bathroom in his sudden panic. Sherlock closed the vial and put it back into the case, gently closing and locking the door. He pressed his hand to the glass, leaving behind his handprint. _Mine_.

Withdrawing from his mind palace and returning to the present, Sherlock groaned and massaged his temples. He couldn't delete what had happened as John had requested, nor did he want to. This wasn't the solar system; this was John.


	13. Turning Point

Sherlock had sulked for a solid week and a half following their discussion of their sexual encounter in the kitchen. Glad for it to have been laid to rest, John had gone back to ignoring Sherlock's childish behavior. Once a decent case came along, he would be off the couch and back to snapping insults at Anderson.

Sure enough, John knew his flatmate well, and the Reichenbach case had fallen into their laps, followed by the reappearance of Moriarty. Once they were hopping cabs and investigating mysterious circumstances, it was as if their awkward encounter from three weeks before hadn't happened. John deduced—living with a consulting detective tends to bring those words into one's vocabulary—that Sherlock had fulfilled John's request to delete the incident from his memory banks. John was grateful for it, but also partly jealous that he didn't have the same ability. He often had dreams about it, and sometimes the events carried on to far more intimate levels. John didn't know what to think, whether he was traumatized by the experience or frustrated about it. What he did know for sure was that whenever he woke up after having one of those dreams, he'd find an impatient erection begging for his attention from beneath the blankets.

A bump in the road startled John from his thoughts, and he looked outside the window, still wet from the rain that had stopped only a few minutes ago. Annoyed as he was, he was equally grateful for Sherlock taking a cab separate from him; it gave each man private time to spend with their own thoughts. Sherlock was no doubt puzzling over the kidnapped girl's reaction to him, and meanwhile John was puzzling over his feelings for Sherlock.

John leaned his head against the cold window, not caring that with each jostle of the cab, his head tapped against the glass. He realized he couldn't keep denying his feelings for Sherlock; he was attracted to him, obviously, but he also considered Sherlock to be his closest friend. The comradery and affection combined with sexual attraction adds up to romantic interest, which was as solidly sure as their address was 221B Baker Street. But what could John do? Sherlock has clearly never been in a relationship before, and he was so tactless and oblivious to human emotion sometimes that John questioned the man's humanity.

He felt that a relationship with Sherlock could go one of two ways: either Sherlock would be extremely self-interested and use John for sexual favors and experiments on emotional manipulation, or he would be as needy as a newborn with the jealousy of an unreasonable teenaged girl. John already knew Sherlock was extraordinarily posessive, given his meddling in John's previous relationships and the way he'd ferociously marked John as his in their first sexual encounter. John unconsciously rubbed the long-since healed skin that joined his neck and shoulder, contemplating how badly he wanted to repeat that incident and leave his own marks on Sherlock's body.

The screeching of tires on the next street over startled John, and he wondered if Sherlock had had an epiphany regarding Moriarty that startled his cabbie. John used the sleeve of his jumper to rub the grease mark from his forehead off the window, and just as the car ahead of his cab turned the corner, he heard three gunshots very close by.

"What the bloody—" John's cabbie slowed down in response to the gunshots, but John leaned forward and shouted at him to hurry up because that could be his friend being shot at around the corner. The cabbie obliged reluctantly, and John threw the approximate amount of money he owed at the man before leaping out of the cab.

"Sherlock!" John called out, not yet able to see who was standing and who was slumped against the curb. He quickly saw with relief that Sherlock was alright, not even faized by the dead man at his feet; if anything, he seemed intrigued or bemused. Sherlock hurriedly explained what had happened before theorizing aloud to John, pacing back and forth in the street as the ambulance was called.

Upon returning to the flat, Sherlock seemed, as always, aware of exactly what was going on; one step ahead of everyone else as usual. He was muttering to himself about dust while Mrs. Hudson and John looked on in confusion, flitting about the flat and sliding his hands over every surface he could reach; for the ones he couldn't reach, he stepped on whatever was conveniently nearby and sturdy enough. It reminded John of a video Stamford had sent him once that showed the effects of several drugs on spiders; Sherlock currently resembled the spider that had been given caffeine.

"What's he on about?" Mrs. Hudson asked, turning to John, and he could only shrug and return the confused expression on her face. He heard someone at the door downstairs, and he went to answer it, leaving Sherlock to climb around the flat like a restless child.

John alternated between feeling as though he was Sherlock's guardian and his… "MY HOSTAGE," Sherlock shouted, pointing the gun at John's head.

The doctor's adrenaline shot through the roof, and he gulped, murmuring, "Hostage? Yes, that works. Now what?" John scanned the crowd of officers quickly, evaluating the situation they were in: Lestrade looked like his jaw was about to fall off, and when John looked at Donovan, he bit his tongue to refrain from offering her popcorn for the show she was obviously enjoying.

"I'm doing what Moriarty wants; becoming a fugitive. Run," and with that, Sherlock was off like a fox after a rabbit. John felt like a dog owner who had lost control during a walk, and was now being dragged by the leash while the dog chased after a cat. They rounded a corner and Sherlock turned his wrist so their handcuffs were closer together, panting breathlessly, "Take my hand!"

John couldn't help but smirk as their fingers laced together in a vice-like grip while they tore down the street and towards an alley. "Now people will definitely talk."

Sherlock smiled, but John couldn't see in the blurred darkness. The gun clattered to the ground behind them, but Sherlock told John to ignore it as they turned down a dark alley that was blocked by a tall fence.

Sherlock leapt onto the fence, and hopped over the other side, impatiently tugging on his end of the handcuffs. John, breathless, still on the other side, reached his free hand through the bars and grabbed a handful of Sherlock's jacket front. "We're going to need to coordinate," he said firmly, and Sherlock's thoughts visibly backtracked to where they were instead of where they were going, and he gave John directions for climbing the fence.

Sherlock was muttering to himself again, about Moriarty and planting ideas, and John hardly had the proper amount of oxygen in his brain to comprehend anything other than running and the fact that not only were the police after them, but so was a trained assassin.

Panting as they leaned against a gritty concrete wall, John asked, "Where are we going?"

Sherlock peeked around the corner and said, "We're going to jump in front of that bus."

Before John could respond, Sherlock was dragging John behind him, running into the middle of the street. They stared into the headlights of the enormous bus for a few seconds before they were tackled off the street and onto the safety of the sidewalk. In a flash, Sherlock grabbed their savior's gun and pointed it at the man's face, demanding an explanation for his actions. The man said that Moriarty had left a code with Sherlock, and before he could say anything more, he was shot down by an unseen sniper.

John and Sherlock darted into another alley as sirens screamed close by, and when John showed Sherlock a paper on a nearby newsstand that foretold of an article about Sherlock, the detective set his jaw. "Now we know where to go."

Sherlock strode briskly down the alley, and John stumbled after, asking, "Yeah? And where is that?"

"We're going for an interview," Sherlock replied ambiguously, grinning mischeviously as he led the way through the network of London's alleyways.


	14. In the Dark

Handcuffs aside, Sherlock and John's current situation was uncomfortable; they were seated in the dark, in a stranger's flat they'd just broken into, waiting for her return from work. The small sofa they were on was built for two, and so Sherlock's and John's legs were touching.

John's mind was a blur of chaotic thoughts: he went back and forth between panicking over their complete lack of a plan (a spoken one, anyway, as Sherlock was bound to have it all planned out without bothering to share any part of it with John) and the close, dark quarters they found themselves in.

John could hear nothing but his own breathing alternating with the detective's beside him. The only way he could avoid thinking about what they could be doing together, alone in the dark, was to focus on the ridiculously dangerous situation they were currently in the middle of. After fifteen minutes of reviewing all that had happened, John's anger began to bubble up to the surface, overtaking his restrained lust.

"What if she isn't coming home tonight? She could have a date, or a late lead to follow," John asked impatiently, tapping the fingers of his free hand on the armrest of the sofa.  
>"Now is not the time to be doubting me, John," Sherlock replied quietly, keeping his eyes on the window and his ears alert for any sounds of someone entering the flat.<p>

"Now is not the time for you to be wrong," John hissed urgently.

There was a brief silence before Sherlock sighed, and though it was completely dark, John could tell Sherlock had rolled his eyes. "I will explain how I know later. We can't risk being overheard by neighbors or Miss Reilly as she approaches the door."

"_If_ she approaches the door," John grumbled. He felt a sharp pinch on his forearm and he gasped from the sudden pain. "What the-?"

"Shut up, John," Sherlock hissed insistently, pinching harder.

"Ow! No, I bloody well won't. You know, I'm beginning to think you meant it when you said I was your hostage. It really feels like—" John's tirade was muffled by Sherlock's hand firmly covering his mouth.

"I said, _shut up; _she's here," Sherlock whispered angrily, his breath hot on John's ear. The lips beneath Sherlock's hand buttoned shut immediately, and Sherlock tightened his grip on John's face as he listened intently for the approach of the reporter. When he heard the front door close, he slowly removed his free hand from John's mouth and let it recline once more on the armrest on his side of the sofa.


	15. The Day the Truth Died

John was telling the cabbie to go to Bart's before he was completely inside the cab. When he slammed the door, the cab sped off on John's instructions to hurry, and a thousand thoughts spun around in John's head. If he had a mind palace, a tornado would be wreaking havoc right now, tearing apart doors and windows, and sending furniture sailing through the air.

_Sherlock didn't react to Mrs. Hudson being in trouble because he knew she wasn't in trouble, because he clearly set that up to send me away. But what for?_

John racked his brain for reasons that Sherlock would have him sent away. Was it dangerous, and he wanted John sent away? No, that's nonsense; he'd dragged John into plenty of life-threatening situations without a moment's hesitation. If all he wanted was to think, he would have ordered John out so he could go to his mind palace; he was always straight-forward about that._ So what was it? _

The last time Sherlock wandered off on his own without inviting John along was when he'd gone to the old academy with the mad cabbie because he wanted to be clever and—_Moriarty. It had to be Moriarty. _  
>John ran his hands across his face, attempting to regulate his breathing to remain calm. After the last stunt Moriarty had pulled, showing up at the reporter's flat and revealing his plan for Sherlock's demise, John had absolutely no idea what to expect next. <em>If anything happens to Sherlock, I swear to God I will murder that arrogant sod who calls himself Sherlock's brother. This is all his fault.<em>

The cab pulled up outside the hospital, and John paid the cabbie quickly, noting that his hand was completely steady. He grasped the handle of the cab door, and his mobile immediately buzzed in his pocket. Stepping out of the cab and striding purposefully towards Bart's, John saw that it was Sherlock and hoped that he would hear the detective's voice rather than Moriarty's on the other end.

"Hello?" John answered tersely, making sure the road was clear for him to cross.

"John," Sherlock's voice buzzed in John's ear, and a portion of the weight in his chest was relieved.

"Hey, Sherlock, are you okay?" _God help me if Moriarty's permanently disabled him and I have to mind the stubborn git and all his complaints for the rest of my life. Bloody hell, what kind of a thought was that at a time like this?  
><em>

"Turn around and walk back to where you came from—"

John interrupted, saying, "I'm coming in!" as he jogged across the street, sensing a tone he didn't recognize when Sherlock spoke.

"Just do as I ask! Please," Sherlock insisted, his voice wavering on the last word.

John stopped dead, realizing that he hadn't imagined the distress he was hearing in Sherlock's voice. He looked around, wondering where it was he had gotten out of the taxi; he hadn't been paying attention. "Wh-where?"

John retraced his steps as best he could, and Sherlock's voice stopped him after about seven paces. "Stop there."

"Sherlock…?" John could tell Sherlock was upset, and he wasn't sure what to do. It wasn't like he was during the Baskerville case, irritated at himself for feeling fear and uncertainty. This time was distress and sadness, and it frightened John because he didn't realize Sherlock was capable of those emotions.

"Okay, look up; I'm on the rooftop," Sherlock said, sounding more composed now. John turned, bewildered, and did as he was told.

Sure enough, standing on top of St. Bart's was Sherlock, his collar turned up and his coat, scarf, and hair blowing in the wind. He was on the edge so John could see him fully, and it was almost picturesque, the perfect angle John was at to gaze up at his flatmate. It looked as though he was alone… _Sherlock, alone on a rooftop, calling John and standing at the edge._ "Oh, God…"

"I-I can't come down, so we'll just have to do it like this," Sherlock's stutter pulled the knot in John's stomach tighter.  
><em>He wouldn't kill himself, would he? No, of course he wouldn't; he was the most arrogant, egotistical sod he had ever known. He loved himself and his genius too much to end it. So what was he doing?<em>

"What's going on?" John asked, his breathing quickening again as he squinted into the bright overcast sky Sherlock's profile stood against.

"An apology," Sherlock said simply, taking a deep breath, "It's all true."

"What?" John demanded; _What was Sherlock talking about? What is all true?_

"Everything they said about me. I invented Moriarty," John saw Sherlock look behind him, and wondered who or what he was looking at. He had to be alone… unless Moriarty was just out of John's view, pointing a gun at Sherlock. That had to be what was going on; Sherlock was distressed, he was admitting to being wrong. Sherlock would never go out of his way to tell John that he was wrong.

John squinted up at Sherlock, trying to see if there was anybody else on the roof with him, be it Moriarty or one of his henchmen. "Why are you saying this?" And why had he left his gun at the flat? He should have grabbed it before dashing off.

"I'm a fake," Sherlock said, his voice breaking.

John's heart broke with Sherlock's voice, and he couldn't believe the words he was hearing. If he wasn't looking at the detective with his own eyes, he wouldn't have believed it was him speaking. It had to be Moriarty, threatening him somehow on the rooftop. "Sherlock…"

Sherlock's shaking voice interrupted him, "The newspapers were right all along. I want you to tell Lestrade, I want you to tell Mrs. Hudson, and Molly… in fact, tell anyone who will listen to you that I created Moriarty for my own purposes."

Enough was enough; John couldn't take it anymore. Moriarty had Sherlock over the deep end; he was sobbing and lying to John, all because of something Moriarty had said or done, or was doing to him on that rooftop. John had to get up there without Moriarty or his people knowing; but how?

For now, he had to calm Sherlock down. "Sherlock, shut up. The first time we met, _the first time we met,_ you knew all about my sister, right?"

"Nobody could be that clever."

"You could," John's response came immediately and without hesitation between the thought and the spoken word. He hadn't meant to say it, but he did, and he meant it with all his heart. Sherlock choked out a sound that was either a laugh or a sob; John couldn't tell which, but either one coming from Sherlock was just as dangerous. John gulped, not sure what to say or what to do.

"I researched you. Before we met, I discovered everything that I could to impress you," John frowned and shifted his weight from one foot to the other; this was a lie, it was all a lie, it had to be! "It's a trick. It's just a magic trick."

John shook his head vehemently, deciding that he was going to go up to that rooftop if it was the last thing he did. "Alright, stop it now!" He took two steps into the street, but Sherlock's voice stopped him as if the command had been sent directly from Sherlock's mouth to John's legs.

"Stay exactly where you are! Don't move," the urgency in Sherlock's voice only made John's desire to disobey him stronger. But this was a tedious situation, so he had to tread carefully.

"Are you alright?" John asked, holding his hand up to block the sun. Sherlock's arm extended in front of him, angled down towards John. His gloriously slender fingers were stretched down towards John, as if reaching for his hand. John desperately wanted to take it, kiss it, and tell Sherlock everything was going to be alright.

"Keep your eyes fixed on me," Sherlock demanded firmly, and John could hear him sniffing between his breaths; Sherlock was crying. Sherlock Holmes was standing on a rooftop, crying, and holding his hand out towards John. Leave it to the big brother and the bully to make the little brother cry. "Please. Will you do this for me?"

"Do what?" John asked breathlessly, sensing the end of their conversation approaching. He couldn't let that happen; he had to keep Sherlock on the phone and talking.

"This phone call," Sherlock sniffed again, continuing softly, "Um, it's my note. It's what people do, don't they? Leave a note?"

John shook his head again, as if each shake brought Sherlock a step backwards from the ledge. He couldn't believe this was happening; Moriarty had to have Sherlock at gunpoint, there was no other way this could be happening. "Leave a note when?" Playing dumb would at least keep their conversation going.

"Goodbye, John."

"No," John shook his head, stepping back, and his own voice wavered. "Don't…"

Sherlock tossed the phone to the side, and John barely heard the clattering feedback on his end as he let his hand fall to his side in disbelief. Or was it resignation and acceptance of the fact that there wasn't a single thing he could do?

The next six seconds were in slow-motion. John could hear his heart pounding in his chest and his ears, and it felt like he had tunnel vision. All he could see was Sherlock, looking so beautiful with his broken voice and his windblown coat as he stood on the top of St. Bart's.

"SHERLOCK!" John bellowed, but it was too late. Like a lone raven about to take flight, Sherlock spread his arms to his side and leaned forward, tipping gracefully off the edge of the building. His coat billowed behind him, and John stopped breathing as he watched his best friend fall like Icarus in reverse to the pavement below.

When Sherlock's head hit the pavement and cracked his skull, John's heart cracked with it. When Sherlock's heart stopped beating on the sudden impact with the ground, John's heart stopped too. And when he felt with his own fingers that the crumpled form on the sidewalk in front of him had lost all signs of life, John felt that he had lost all the reasons he had to stay alive.


	16. Aftermath

Lies. All around John was nothing but lies. Scotland Yard was ruling Sherlock's and Moriarty's deaths as homicide-suicide on Sherlock's part, but John and Lestrade were the only ones who knew better. Lestrade had been fired the moment the story hit the papers, and Sally Donovan was chosen to take his place, basking in the glory of having been a primary player in uncovering the "truth" behind Sherlock Holmes.  
>John kicked himself for not charging into Bart's and up the stairs to the roof the week before. If he had, Sherlock could still be alive and Moriarty would have a much less mysterious cause of death.<p>

There was no saving Sherlock's name for the time being. The media was having a field day covering the so-called scandal, so it was too soon to approach them with the truth. In a few months' time, perhaps, but John had research to do first.

"John," Greg Lestrade's voice buzzed in the doctor's ear through his mobile, sounding exhausted and defeated with a glint of sympathy that seemed like a reassuring hand reaching towards John.

"I've been reading everything in the papers… you, um, doing alright?" John asked, glancing at the newspaper on the table in front of him. The picture on the front page was of Sally Donovan looking rather smug as she shook hands with the Chief Superintendent.

"I was blacklisted," Lestrade finally said after a long pause, during which John heard him take a drag off a cigarette. He'd been trying to quit, like Sherlock, and had been doing quite well. _That's all out the window now, apparently,_ John thought to himself. "Nobody will even trust me to direct traffic now. And Susan is filing a custody case against me for the kids, now that I'm unemployed."

"Oh, God," John murmured. _As if the divorce on its own wasn't bad enough. _"I'm so sorry."

"Yeah, me too," Greg's heavy reply held the two men in a mournful but comfortable silence for nearly a full minute. The former inspector broke the silence with a gentle, "John…" but John cut him off.

"It's fine, Greg. This isn't your fault. It was all Moriarty, though as much as I'd like to, I can't even give him all the credit."

"What do you mean?" the former detective inspector asked, clearly intrigued by whatever information John had to offer on the subject.

"Mycroft helped a good bit," John said bitterly.

"God, did he really?"

"How else do you think the papers got all that information?" John demanded. He'd had the strongest urge to confront Mycroft for the past week, but he needed a game plan before he could make a move.

"Oh! No! John, I wasn't—I didn't mean—"

"I know you weren't, it's fine," John replied apologetically, rubbing his lined forehead when he realized that Greg had mistaken John's anger at Mycroft for being anger at the Inspector.

"So… how are you holding up, then? And Mrs. Hudson?" Greg asked quietly.

"I'm fine," the doctor lied, knowing full well that Lestrade didn't buy it for a second. "Mrs. Hudson's getting on alright. How's Molly?"

"Haven't the faintest," Lestrade replied glumly. "Last I heard, she called out sick when—on Thursday." John was grateful for Lestrade's save; he couldn't bear to hear his flatmate's name so soon.

"But you were out of the loop by then, weren't you?" John asked, recalling that it had been Wednesday night—the night of the attempted arrest—when Lestrade had been fired, after the failed arrest.

"By Thursday, I was, but she called out on Wednesday night. Right after she finished her shift. After that, I don't know."

"I haven't gone to see her…" John said guiltily; he cared about Molly, but he couldn't bring himself to go anywhere near the hospital since Thursday.

"Of course not," Greg replied, adding quickly, "I mean, I understand."

"Yeah," John said to affirm he'd known what the other man had meant.

"I'm not—I've been banned from going there, barring medical neccessity," Greg explained.

"The Yard too, I suppose?" John asked; if he could only get a look at the file on what had happened and what they'd found on Thursday…

"Unfortunately, yes. So I haven't had a look at anything or heard a word about any of it. You've seen more than I have." An awkward pause. "Sorry."

"No, it's fine," John muttered, unable to hide his diappointment as he repeated, "It's fine."

The doctor heard Greg take another drag and slowly exhale through his nose before he asked, "So you haven't got a shift at the surgery today, then?"

"No, I resigned on Friday."

"Right," another hit from the cigarette, "You fancy meeting for lunch?"


	17. Yorick

"Morning," John mumbled sleepily to the skull as he shuffled into the kitchen. It was currently sitting beside a microscope at the empty place at the table; he'd initially cleaned up all of the equipment and tossed unfinished experiments, with some help from Mrs. Hudson, but the table was too empty after that. He was so used to it being cluttered, he'd had to put _something_ there. So he'd put the skull there, facing him from the opposite side of the table, as he'd taken to talking to it. It was part comfort and part distraction, and in a sad kind of way it was a sort of companionship, albeit one-sided. The skull looked oddly lonesome just sitting on the otherwise empty table by itself, so John had pulled out one of the microscopes and set it beside his mute friend.

"Have you seen this?" John asked a few minutes later, as he was eating breakfast, more out of habit than wanting. He was still adjusting to getting up for hospital shifts; it was his second week working at a hospital on the other side of town. He gestured to the front-page story in the paper and continued, "It's mad. Absolutely mad. Some bloke's going 'round, kidnapping women, blinding them before having his way with them, and killing them after. He's been at it for weeks now, and Scotland Yard's too incompetent now to find him properly." John read for a bit more before speaking again with a crude sneer, "Detective Inspector Donovan. As if anything was Greg's fault."

The two men had met for lunch a few times, but it had only lasted for a week and a half; John eventually just ignored Greg's calls and texts. Whenever they met, the same subject kept cropping up, as he was the link that had caused them to become acquainted in the first place, and John couldn't bring himself to speak or even think of the name.

His therapist had said that talking about it would help, and also suggested that he move out of 221B Baker Street. That was when John had abruptly left her office, swearing to himself – and every person in earshot en route to 221B—that he didn't need anybody's help and he would only move out of 221B if he was being carried out into a Hearse.

His therapist hadn't made the suggestion solely for John's emotional health, but she'd also had his financial status in mind. John couldn't afford 221B once it changed from paying half the rent to paying it in full. Immediately following the "scandal," however, somebody else had been paying half of the rent, and it didn't take a genius to know who it was. John only allowed it because he knew that was no way he could face, let alone speak to, Mycroft Holmes. After what he had done to his own brother with the avalanche he himself had started and made no effort to stop, John would lose what little sanity he had left in the inevitable argument with Mycroft. He couldn't allow Mycroft that victory; he'd done enough already.

John dipped his chin into his chest and closed his eyes when his vision blurred, and let the tears roll down his cheeks. He'd given up on fighting it after the first month, but it only functioned as relief for the two weeks following. Whatever endorphins John had were spent by now, and so the crying was just a release of tension by way of salty tears. It was only a matter of time now before he would sob himself into a drought and simply find himself shaking with dry heaves and pathetic gasping, like a dying man. He would almost rather be dying, as he knew it wasn't nearly as painful as heartbreak.

He reached forward blindly through his bleary vision and, finding the skull with his fingers, turned it to face the other way. That being done, John choked out a woeful sob that shook his shoulders as if he were being hit by an emotional hurricane.

He continued in this manner for about ten minutes before the sobs turned to sighs and the gasps turned to whimpers. Having had his dignity stripped away for the morning, John wearily got up from the table to get ready for his shift at the hospital and go on about his day.


	18. Big Brother

John thanked his cabbie before shutting the door and walking up to the front door of 221B. He slid his key into the lock, but when he turned it, there was no resistance; it was unlocked, even though he had locked it on his way out that morning. He opened the door slowly and quietly, and he found Mrs. Hudson poking her head out of her door anxiously.

"He's here, John," the kind landlady said with an anxious glance up the stairs.

His stomach turned at the thought that somehow Sherlock was back and waiting for him upstairs. "Wh-what? Who?" John stammered as he pocketed his keys clumsily.

"Mycroft," Mrs. Hudson whispered, as if afraid she would be heard.

"Oh… bullocks," John muttered, attempting to mind his language with Mrs. Hudson present. "Thanks for the heads up."

"It's the least I could do, dear," she took John's hand briefly to squeeze it in a reassuring, motherly way. "You know where to find me."

"Right," John said absently, already beginning his climb up the stairs. He took a deep breath before opening the door and stepping into the sitting room. He found Mycroft seated by the fireplace, idly pulling lint off his trousers. As usual, he was dressed to the nines and had a briefcase by his feet.

"Good afternoon, John."

"What are you doing here?" John demanded calmly as he hung his jacket on its hook. Instead of taking a seat in his chair—currently occupied by Mycroft—he remained standing by the door.

"I wanted to touch base with you. In these tragic times, I want to be sure you're getting on alright. Are you?" Mycroft drawled in his usual deliberate manner, finally shifting his attention from his trouser leg to John.  
>John could feel Mycroft analyzing his appearance and body language like a psychological X-ray machine, but as he was used to it and had nothing to hide anymore, he ignored it. "Oh, just fine. Everything's just dandy here. Your brother isn't here at the moment, as he's dead now, thanks to you."<p>

Mycroft didn't break eye contact with John, as much as it pained him to feel the daggers in John's gaze shooting into his own. He deserved it, he knew, and was ready to take his punishment in whatever way John saw fit. "I cannot express in words how much I regret—"

"No. You can't. Because it's too late, and you've already expressed quite clearly in your actions that you never cared the slightest bit for your own brother's welfare." John pinched the bridge of his nose and squeezed his eyes shut, trying to keep himself under control. "I always thought it was some petty feud between the two of you, with equal immaturity on both sides, but clearly it was an abusive relationship where he was the victim and you were the bully. That's all you are, Mycroft; the bully at the top of the playground throwing rocks at all the other children to keep from being bored. Your brother helped people to keep boredom at bay, but you… you bully and manipulate and control. How does it feel now, at the top by yourself? No little brother to worry about anymore, you damn well took care of that little nuisance."

"I understand you are upset—"

"Upset?" John was shouting now, but he didn't care. "To hell with me, Mycroft! This isn't about me, this is about Sherlock!" John hadn't spoken his name since he'd shouted it at the top of his lungs when he watched the detective fall. It left a bitter taste in his mouth, like something that was once sweet but had long since expired and gone sour.

"Sherlock is dead, John. Dead and gone, and we need to move on—"

"DON'T YOU SAY HIS NAME!" John bellowed, his chest swelling in anger, "You don't—your words, your bloody blabbing mouth is what sent him off the top of that building. Your words are shit, Mycroft, and don't you dare mix Sherlock's name into any of it!"

Mycroft took a deep breath; he was staring at his shoes now. "I can only imagine the pain you are going through with such a loss—"  
>John laughed maliciously and shook his head, pointing at Mycroft as he said, "You… you lucky bastard. You can <em>imagine <em>my pain, you can _imagine_ how this feels. You get to _imagine_. But you know what I do? I _feel_ it. You can only _imagine_ what Sherlock looked like when he fell, but I don't have to. I don't have that privilege because I know._ I saw it with my own eyes_. I saw his body crumpled at all odd angles, his head smashed like a bloody pumpkin on the sidewalk. You can imagine all you bloody well want, Mycroft, but you didn't see what I saw, and you don't feel what I feel."

"If you would just allow me to explain my position—"

"Your position?" John demanded, laughing again, "Which one is that, then? Your position in the government? Your position as a manipulative sod? Your position handing Moriarty all the ammunition he needed to destroy Sherlock? Or your position as Big Brother with all your bloody cameras on every street corner, watching this all play out without lifting a finger to stop it happening? Don't try to explain any position to me, Mycroft, because I will never understand and you are wasting your breath."

"I see," Mycroft said quietly, still staring down at his shoes.

"No," John shook his head, a mad smile on his face, "No, you don't."

"I've seen more than you think," Mycroft replied calmly, opening his briefcase and removing a bulky folder from inside. This piqued John's interest, and he momentarily forgot his anger.

"What's that? Is that his file?" John demanded impatiently, striding across the room to stand beside his chair.

"Yes. I hope you will accept it as my apology, for everything that has transpired in the past two months," Mycroft said, holding out the folder for John to take.

John grabbed it gently, as if it was a small child, and snapped, "I don't. Now get out; I want to look this over on my own."

"That's hardly advisable, under the—"

"Piss off," John snapped, carrying the file into the kitchen and setting it on the table. He kept his hand on it, as if it would fly out the door if he lost physical contact with it.

Mycroft stood up to leave, and as he stopped in front of the door, he turned to John and said, "I cannot tell you enough how truly sorry I am, for all of this."

"Then treat me like you did your brother, and don't bother," John said, his gaze shooting through the back of Mycroft's skull. The elder—now the only—Mr. Holmes gave the doctor a curt nod before stepping out of the door and slowly descending the stairs to leave the flat. He hadn't made it to the bottom of the steps when he heard unrestrained sobs coming from upstairs.


	19. A Study in Misery

John swallowed his angry sobs quickly, telling himself that if he was already sobbing from his argument from Mycroft, there was no way he'd make it through the file on Sherlock's suicide. He blew his nose, adding more crumpled tissues to the growing collection in the kitchen wastebasket, and wiped his eyes with the edge of his sleeves. Sinking heavily into the chair at the table, he took a deep breath and opened the file.

Three hours and several beers later, John found himself slumped on the sofa with the skull facing him on the coffee table. A hybrid hiccup-burp escaped his throat as he reached his half-empty bottle out towards the skull's.

"Cheese, mate," John slurred and overenthusiastically clinked his bottle against the one beside the skull, knocking it over and spilling cheap beer on the table. It dripped down the leg and over the edges, staining the carpet. "Oops," John mumbled and threw back what was left of his bottle. "I'll get you 'nother one."

He reached down into the last of three 6-packs at his feet and took out the last two beers. He opened them both clumsily, at first holding the bottle opener upside-down, and set one down beside the skull, right in the puddle from the previous bottle.

"To Sherlock," John mumbled semi-coherently and raised his bottle in a toast to the skull before taking a long swig.

Images flashed in his head from the file he'd finished paging through an hour ago: first, a picture of a small boy with a dense mop of dark curls framing his pale face, standing beside a tall but heavy-set boy with meticulously combed brown hair and a somber face for his age, and behind them a beautiful woman with long, wavy brown hair and a very confident look about her. It was labeled "November 1990; Sherlock Holmes, 8; Mycroft Holmes, 15; Evangeline Holmes, 34. *Only known family photograph."

John hadn't realized until he'd opened it that the file Mycroft had brought him was not the file on Sherlock's suicide, but rather that of his life. Everything that Great Britain had on record in regards to Sherlock Holmes was in the bulky folder that Mycroft had obtained for John. He hadn't been prepared for Sherlock's entire life story, and so as he paged through the few photographs of Sherlock growing up and the accompanying notes describing the socially active and maternally negligent Evangeline Holmes, it deepened his misery more than he'd originally anticipated. It brought to mind the character Daisy Buchannan from F. Scott Fitzgerald's _The Great Gatsby_. John had read the book to pass the time on nights when he couldn't sleep during his tour in Afghanistan, and Evangeline's preoccupation with attending various social events was not unlike Daisy's obsession with extravagant soirees.

"S'no wonder he was such a prick," John slurred, blinking drunkenly at the skull. He gulped down more beer, and when a thought occurred to him, he spluttered his drink all over himself when he spoke before swallowing. "Sorry. So sorry. He didn't deserve that. I was wrong. I'm drunk." John poured more beer down his throat, choking when the memory of Sherlock's bloody body on the ground flashed in his mind. With it came images from the end of the file, which included the detailed autopsy report and pictures of Sherlock's blood splattered across the sidewalk. John's sobs turned into growls and he glared at the skull in front of him on the table.

"Why aren't you drinking? Hm?" He demanded loudly, tossing his mostly-empty bottle beside him on the couch and reaching for the bottle next to the skull. Picking it up, he tipped it clumsily to pour it into the skull's jaw. It spilled across the table, soaking the papers scattered on it, and John cursed thunderously. "If you won't fucking drink it, I will!" That said, he knocked back what was left in the bottle and fell back against the couch, his left arm falling on a damp spot on the couch from his previous bottle. He blinked sleepily, mumbled Sherlock's name, and passed out cold for the rest of the night.


	20. Estranged

_BANG. Moriarty crumpled into a heap on the concrete, bits of his head scattered around him in a bloody splatter. Sherlock whirled around, and his initial look of alarm faded into relief when he saw that it was John, standing breathlessly by the doorway leading onto the roof of Bart's._

_ "He fell for it, yeah?" I asked, lowering my gun, but not putting it away just yet. I don't know if Moriarty has any snipers hanging about like he did last time, and I don't want to be caught off guard._

_ "Until he heard the door, yes," Sherlock replied, circling Moriarty's body, but not really looking at it; he appeared to be pacing._

_ "Are you alright?" I asked tentatively, approaching Sherlock to assess him for injury. Moriarty could have been torturing him for all I knew. I had only heard Sherlock's voice on the phone._

_ "I'm fine," Sherlock said bluntly, turning away from me and walking towards the edge of the roof._

_ "That was the best act I've seen from you yet," I said, wiping my nose with the back of my hand. Maybe it was my changed feelings for Sherlock that got to me, or maybe this really was a great act. _

_ "It wasn't an act, John," Sherlock said, stepping up onto the ledge, "Moriarty was right."_

_ "What? What are you talking about? What did he say to you?" Why was Sherlock getting closer to the edge? It was dangerous, and it was scaring me._

_ "I have to do this, John," Sherlock had been looking out across the city, but now he was looking down at the street below._

_ "No. Sherlock, no," I realized what he was doing, and tried to approach him carefully._

_ "Don't argue with me, John. I have to do this."_

_ "No you don't, Sherlock. I've killed him; Moriarty is dead. It's over. Now come on, let's get to the Yard to report this to Lestrade,"and then maybe we can shag each other's brains out when we get back to the flat, because damn my sexuality, I want this man._

_ "I said don't argue with me!" Sherlock shouted, and his raised voice stung as if he'd slapped me across the face. "I have to do this; there is no other way!"_

_ "What did he say to you, Sherlock? He was just getting into your head. Don't pay any mind to whatever he said!"_

_ Sherlock didn't turn around as he spread his arms and leaned forward. "Goodbye, John."_

_ "No! Sherlock!" _

"Sherlock!" John bellowed, sitting bolt upright in bed, arms extended in front of him, grasping blindly in the air. He was covered in sweat and tears, and he was shaking so badly that the bedframe rattled.

When he realized it had just been another nightmare, he fell back against the pillow in exhaustion. He'd taken three breaths to calm himself when the image of Sherlock's broken skull on the pavement flashed in his mind and he began sobbing. It was shameful and shameless at the same time, and he knew Mrs. Hudson could hear, but he couldn't have pulled himself together even if he'd wanted to. She'd begun sleeping with earplugs because of it, John had noticed from the way she absently rubbed her ears in the mornings. It was something he wouldn't have noticed if he'd never met Sherlock, with all his analyzing and keen observational skills.

John finally managed to pull himself together, and he cleaned himself up with tissues he kept on his nightstand for use after his Sherlock dreams. If it wasn't a dream about Sherlock jumping, it was about the two of them rolling around in bed, fucking and sucking each other's brains out. Either way, the clean-up afterwards involved tissues.

Meanwhile, unbeknownst to John, there was a tall figure quietly slipping out of 221B Baker Street in a heavy coat and scarf that were too warm for the September weather. If anyone had been on the street as he strode briskly out of the flat, between the hat and scarf, they would have seen sharp blue eyes shining with tears and filled with more pain than any man should ever have to endure in a lifetime.

His cause for a visit was only to drop off the rent for the next three months in Mrs. Hudson's box, which was ordinarily a quick in-and-out procedure, but he had paused when he heard his name shouted from two floors above him. It was the kind of cry one would hear from a small child who had been separated from his mother in a crowded shop, or from a soldier who had just seen his best mate shot down in combat.

Sherlock would have given anything to feel that shout hit the back of his throat in a heated, desperate fucking in the middle of the night, but he had nothing left to give; as he'd already given everything to ensure that the man who called his name was still breathing.


	21. Notes from Ezra

_Greetings, loyal readers! I've added this "chapter" as a space for my final notes on this series, rather than trying to squish them in with the last chapter._

_First of all, I want to thank you all for reading and sticking through all 20 chapters of this fic! (Twenty! I can hardly believe it myself!) Your reviews and suggestions have all been lovely encouragement for me; after all, I write to please you guys, not just myself._

_The next thing (and most important to you guys) that I'd like to address is when I'll be starting Part II of this series. As we all know, Sherlock series 3 will not air until summer 2013. That means that I cannot continue this series until after that first episode where I presume they will reveal how Sherlock survived The Fall. So, much like Series 3 of the show, Part II of this fic will start with The Reveal of how Sherlock survived._

_I apologize for the long wait that lies ahead of you all, but in the meantime, I'll be working on my other fics, and I'm accepting requests for any fics you'd like me to write! So don't be shy and message me with your ideas! They don't have to be for Sherlock, either; I'm also part of the Doctor Who and Harry Potter fandoms. _

_Thanks again for reading and reviewing! Part II of "The Address is 221B Baker Street" will be coming to your FF story alerts in Summer 2013!_

_-Ezra_


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